Mother's Story

by Amanda Prowse

  I looked at my thin wrists and hands with disgust. The act they have performed taints everything they come into contact with. The food they touch turns to ashes in my mouth, flowers lose their natural scent, taking on the smell of the bathroom on that day, and any skin they happen upon shrinks from my touch as if burnt.

  All of this and more I deserve because I did the worst thing a woman could do.

  The very worst.

  Did I do it on purpose? Yes, yes I did.

  Am I a bad person or do I deserve the kindly words and knowing smiles that sometimes float my way across the games room or exercise yard?

  Truthfully? I don’t know the answer to that question.

  Two

  It was less than twenty-four hours after the wedding speeches that a naked Jessica flung open the doors on to the balcony of Matt’s parents’ Majorcan villa. The wood and wrought-iron shutters were thrown wide to reveal the bright blue Mediterranean morning and the gauzy curtain panels arched in the early breeze. Beyond their window and the ornate scrolled iron balcony they could see nothing but the green tops of the Tramuntana Mountains. Even at this early hour, the sun was giving off warmth and there was the distant ring of bells from the Church of San Juan Bautista in the village. Jessica looked back at Matthew, resting her chin on her shoulder.

  ‘This is so perfect! I think it’s the nicest place I have ever been and I can’t believe we’re here!’ She tucked her hair behind her ears and turned to her husband, who lay in the crumpled bed with the edge of a white sheet wrapped around his toned legs. ‘And I can’t believe your parents just leave the key in a tin behind the bush! I’m surprised you haven’t got squatters.’

  ‘I think that’s unlikely. Everyone knows everyone – anything suspicious and Mum and Dad’s phone would be ringing off the hook.’

  ‘We should go for a walk, stop somewhere pretty for coffee and fresh bread and then come back for more sex!’ She ran at the bed and landed with a thud against the antique, brocade-covered headboard.

  ‘For God’s sake, Jessica, you can’t want more sex! You’re going to kill me!’ Matthew pulled the pillow over his head.

  ‘I can’t help it, I find you irresistible. You should be glad I do. Lots of women don’t like sex.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yep. I read it in my magazine.’ She smacked his bottom. ‘Think yourself lucky you didn’t marry one of those,’ she said as she chose a chocolate Hobnob from the biscuit selection in her handbag and shoved half of it into her mouth.

  ‘Firstly, this morning I wish I had married one of those; I could do with the rest. Secondly, you are covering this bed in crumbs!’ He groaned.

  ‘Matthew, we are on our honeymoon. You can’t moan about me wanting lots of sex or eating biscuits in bed. You can only be miserable after we’ve been married forever and I repeat myself and you have to wee every five minutes and you have one of those bloated fat tums that old men have, tucked under a belt with your jumper pulled over it.’ She popped the other half in her mouth.

  Matthew propped himself up on his elbow. ‘I could never moan at you. You’re amazing. I think I’m the luckiest man alive. Don’t you ever change.’ He ran his thumb over the inside of her arm.

  ‘I won’t. Apart from getting wrinkly.’ She grimaced.

  ‘I shall love each of your wrinkles.’ He leant forward and kissed her knee.

  ‘And I shall love your little fat tum and skinny legs!’

  ‘I object! I haven’t got skinny legs!’

  ‘No, but I’ve seen your dad in shorts and I bet you will have. You are going to turn into him, I can see it.’ Jessica reached for another biscuit.

  ‘Blimey, and you still married me?’ He laughed, pulling her on top of him until they lay skin to skin, letting the warm Majorcan breeze flow over them.

  Jessica wriggled down the bed until her head rested on her husband’s chest. ‘I didn’t know another person could make me this happy.’

  ‘Me neither.’ He smiled.

  Jessica pressed her body against his.

  ‘Oh God! This is going to mean sex again, isn’t it?’ Matthew closed his eyes and sank his head back into the pillows.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ she confirmed. ‘Just lie back and sing “Jerusalem” and with any luck it should all be done and dusted before you’ve got through the second verse.’

  With her basket on her arm, Jessica picked her way down the steep path and on to the shingle beach. She looked up at her husband, who, more confident of the route, had strolled ahead, carrying the towels and a thick blanket to lie on. She hesitated, pausing to shield her eyes against the sun and to stare at her man as he placed the rug on the ground and spread the towels on top. She knew this was the most perfect time in the most perfect place. Her face ached from smiling, but she couldn’t stop. She was filled with happiness and excitement.

  Looking over at Matthew, her heart skipped and joy bubbled up into her throat. He was in his shorts and flip-flops, going from corner to corner, crouching down, making the makeshift sunbed the neatest and comfiest it could be. Jessica pushed her sunglasses further up her nose and gazed at him. He looked beautiful; the sun lit him from behind as he stood in a golden haze. It was a moment of realisation that her whole happiness lay in this man’s hands. It felt like a fragile thing that might, if wrongly handled, take flight. The thought, the idea of him turning off the love that poured from him was enough to make her feel sick. His love was like an addiction, a drug. He was so much more than her. Smarter, posher, better looking. Just better. And she realised in that moment that she was vulnerable and that the happiness she had found could be taken from her with nothing more than a change of heart. This thought terrified her. She remembered taking Matthew to the pub to meet Polly for the first time and hurrying to the loo so she could get her feedback. Polly had leant on the sink and said, ‘Bloody hell, Jess! He’s Manchester United!’ She knew what this meant: out of her league and it wasn’t only about looks. It was so much more than that.

  ‘Here we go, madam.’ Matthew bowed. ‘Your bed for the day awaits!’

  Jessica giggled, depositing her basket by the blanket, their lunch of freshly baked bread, slices of Serrano ham and a small punnet of olives safely wrapped inside. She kicked off her sandals, abandoned her sunhat and strolled to the shoreline, letting the lapping waves foam over her toes.

  ‘Ooh, that water’s quite chilly!’ She stepped backwards.

  ‘Rubbish!’ he scoffed. ‘You just have to be brave.’

  ‘I’d rather be warm than brave,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘Is that right?’ he asked as he removed his sunglasses and threw them down near the basket.

  Jessica screamed in anticipation as he covered the space between them at speed, his head bent low, like a bull on the charge. Before she had time to protest, he had grabbed her around the waist and was hurtling into the water, taking her with him. The salt water was kicked up in an arc, soaking them both before he lost his footing and sank down into the sea, dragging his squealing bride with him. They immediately bobbed to the surface, Matthew laughing and Jessica spluttering with the shock. She raised her fist to thump him but he caught it, pulling her close, lifting her like a baby until she rested in his grip with one head on his shoulder and her legs dangling over his arm. He swirled her around in the water as the waves gently broke over them, leaving a salt residue on their skin and their hair plastered to their faces.

  ‘See, it’s not cold, not once you are in.’ He smiled.

  She nodded. He was right.

  ‘Don’t ever leave me, Matt.’

  ‘I’ll never leave you.’ He kissed her nose. ‘Lie back. I’ll hold you.’

  Matthew moved his hands to the small of her back as Jessica slid down and lay flat on the water with her arms outstretched and her head back in the sea. She lay very still as the small waves lapped over her ears. With nothing more than Matthew’s gentle support keeping her up, Jessica looked up towards the mountaintops. />
  ‘I feel like I’m flying,’ she breathed as he moved her gently across the surface.

  ‘Fly high, golden girl. I’ve got you.’

  Jessica arched her back slightly, pushing back further into the water and enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. She was overcome with a sense of peace. She wished they could stay like that forever.

  14th March, 2012

  Some days I feel as though I am inside a small box. Everywhere seems airless and claustrophobic, particularly when it’s sunny and bright outside. If I could scratch away my skin to get out, I would. There is no quiet space I can hide and no place I can be by myself to think for any length of time.

  The dining room smells of bad breath, old food and boiled vegetables. It reminds me of a school canteen and although I am sure I will get used to the smell, I haven’t yet. Today, I was given a helping of corned beef with a couple of limp salad leaves that had stuck to the warm plate. I stared at it and the woman in the hairnet who had given it to me said, ‘What’s the matter, Rapunzel, did you want something different off the menu?’ If only I could, but she was just being mean.

  People have regular seats on the benches fixed on either side of the long, thin dining tables – some groups huddle together, whispering, others laugh and chat. I sat alone at an empty table as usual, but a woman lowered herself onto the bench opposite me, following my every move. She was desperately thin and drummed the tabletop with stained yellow fingers; her long nails made an unattractive click. She was wearing a misshapen grey T-shirt with the word ‘Nagasaki’ in peeling raised print on the front. Her arms were stick-like and hung from the gaping armholes like spaghetti. ‘Got any baccy?’ She grinned at me and I could see little black stumps instead of teeth as she flicked her lanky fringe from her face. I just shook my head and did my best to ignore her. It’s not as if this kind of thing hasn’t happened before. It’s just that sometimes I can keep a hard shell fixed around my heart, and sometimes I can’t. Today I couldn’t and I felt scared. Sick and scared.

  When I was growing up, it didn’t matter how rubbish my day was or how overwhelmed by life I felt, I always thought my mum and dad could fix everything, because they did! Stepping inside the front door of our little house in Hillcrest Road, Romford was like being wrapped in a warm safety blanket. I don’t remember being aware of the seasons; in our house it was always warm and cosy. My dad would peel me a clementine, removing all the white pith that I hated and singing ‘Oh my darling…’ and no matter when or where I fell asleep, he would put a blanket over my toes and draw the curtains.

  But on the day I followed the policeman up the path and into the hallway, the day I lay on my bed and listened to my mum screaming and swearing as my dad held her down, the day my heart beat so fast I thought I might die too, I realised that my mum and dad had failed. There was no safety blanket. They couldn’t keep us safe and I knew this because they had let Danny die. And I lost my faith in them.

  I have considered the possibility that they were being punished. Maybe they had done something wrong and so Danny got taken from them. Like there is this unseen force totting up the good and bad and making everything balance. That’s how the world works sometimes; it is cruel, hard and difficult to live in.

  Three

  It was dusk in London and despite being September, when winter pawed impatiently at the break of dawn and blew its cool breath over the sunniest of afternoons, there was still the lingering promise of a warmer day tomorrow.

  Matthew felt a swell of pride every time he placed the key in the willow-green front door of their red-brick Edwardian terrace on Merton Avenue off the Chiswick High Road. Having a key to his very own front door – their first house – felt like a huge deal. It was more than enough to counteract the gut-churning worry that preoccupied him at three in the morning when he got up to pee and thought about the size of the mortgage that they had taken out and the hefty deposit they had been gifted by his parents.

  Anthony had made his fortune buying then renovating houses and building new ones, lots of them. He was adamant that homeownership was the only way to safeguard his son’s future. With that in mind, not long after their engagement, the equivalent of Matthew’s yearly salary had been transferred into his account without comment. His parents had of course insisted it was a gift, but Matthew felt it was in some way a test. Would he pay it back? Could he?

  Jessica had fallen in love with the property the moment they had arrived, before the estate agent had even opened the front door. She ran her fingers over the pale pink dog rose that clung to the trellis at the side of the front door and hung in a heavy bower over the lintel. It gave off a heady scent as they entered the house.

  ‘Just think of all the people who have walked through this door since it was built.’ She turned to Matthew, beaming. ‘I can see women standing here waving their men off to war and I bet they had a street party for the Queen’s coronation!’

  Matthew nodded, knowing that she was right there and then picturing herself walking through this door in all seasons, planning how she would greet Polly and her parents from the other side of the etched glass panels.

  Jessica had then leapt and squealed her way around the house, shouting, ‘I love it! I absolutely love it. Look at the space! And it’s so light, I can work here. Oh, Matt, look at this place!’ So much for appearing cool and indifferent in front of the estate agent, the better to try and negotiate a favourable price. Matthew smiled as he remembered that day.

  It was also the day they had met their next-door neighbour. The woman had loitered around the mini wheelie-bin behind her gate, wearing a green cardi, brown tweed skirt and what looked like men’s shoes. Her movements were slow. She seemed to be taking a very long time to deposit the half-full carrier bag, clearly hoping for a glimpse of the young couple, if not an introduction. Jessica waved at her as they left, full of excitement at the prospect of the house becoming theirs.

  ‘I have lived here all my life. This was my mother’s house.’ This was her opener, delivered with narrowed eyes and without even the hint of a smile.

  ‘Well, lucky you. It’s such a lovely street!’ Jessica beamed, trying to win her over.

  ‘Used to be.’ The woman tutted, jerking her head towards the opposite side of the road, which left Jessica and Matthew wondering who had moved in and put an end to the good times. The woman was tiny, in her seventies, not quite five foot and of slight build. She had a blunt grey bob and wide fringe that from a distance looked like a helmet. Her lips were almost non-existent and her eyes tiny behind her John-Lennon-style frames.

  ‘I am Mrs Pleasant,’ she said before scuttling back inside.

  Matthew and Jessica had fallen around laughing when they’d got back to their flat.

  ‘At least we know we won’t be living next door to a crack den and I shouldn’t imagine there will be many sex noises coming through the walls,’ Jessica said.

  ‘At least not from her side!’ Matthew quipped.

  ‘She creeped me out.’ Jessica shuddered. ‘The way she announced “I am Mrs Pleasant”; that was just weird.’

  ‘I tell you what’s weird – her name, when she is one of the least pleasant people I’ve met!’

  ‘I know, right! It only works if her first name is Not-Very!’ And the two fell onto the sofa, laughing some more.

  Matthew now hovered at the door of the sitting room, watching his wife, who sat curled into the window seat. One leg was tucked underneath her bottom, the other stretched in an elegant arc with her oversized sketchpad resting on it. Her thick hair was in a messy ponytail on top of her head and her leggings had gone baggy around the knees from sitting in her favourite pose all day. It was on days like this that he thought her most beautiful: no make-up, no fancy clothes and lit from within, consumed by the task in hand. Her face was contorted with concentration; a little crease had appeared at the top of her nose and her tongue poked from the side of her mouth. She had been taken on by a freelance agency and this was her first commission.
Jessica had excitedly read the brief aloud. ‘A children’s book!’ she’d squealed. ‘“We are looking for woodland creatures both male and female that should be appealing and non-threatening and will incorporate elements of nature in both their physique and costume.” How brilliant is that!’

  Jessica looked up and stared at her husband, his tie askew, the stresses of the commute etched beneath his eyes. ‘How was your day, Mr Important Lawyer?’

  ‘I’m not an important lawyer yet, Jess. If I were, I wouldn’t spend most of my day shuffling paper and searching for things at the request of my dickhead colleagues further up the ladder. Today was really, really boring. And long. As soon as anyone mentions the word “background” in relation to a client, I know that means me with my head in a file two inches from a screen for the next day or so.’

  ‘Oh, poor Matt.’ She sighed.

  ‘Did I mention it was boring?’ he asked as he dropped his briefcase to the floor, threw his keys onto the console table and slumped against the door frame. ‘Do you know how much I envy you, being able to work in your pyjamas, sip tea when you feel like it and lounge in the window seat with the radio on? You live the life of a lottery winner, not a care in the bloody world!’ He smiled at her.

  Jessica nodded. ‘You are right, but in exchange for my fabulous career choice as a freelance illustrator, I earn barely enough to keep me in baked beans, maybe half a tin at the most, and if I didn’t have a clever, well-paid man to support me, I’d be destitute.’ She shrugged.

  ‘There are women all over the country squirming inside their “All Men Are Bastards” T-shirts at that very statement.’

  ‘It’s true though.’ Jessica placed her pencil in her mouth and flipped the pages of her pad. She felt a surge of self-doubt. She loved drawing, it was one of the few things she knew she was good at – really good at – but if she couldn’t make any money from it, what was the point?