The Lost Mother: An absolutely gripping and emotional read that will have you hooked

by Tracy Buchanan

  Jay’s blue eyes widened. ‘Christ, I’m so sorry, Claire. You should have said.’ He put his hand on her arm. She took a gulp of champagne, forcing the pain away. ‘When did you find out?’ he asked.

  ‘About five years ago now. I have dodgy eggs.’

  ‘You shouldn’t lose hope,’ Jay said. ‘I know someone who had problems conceiving. They saw this wonderful doctor in Los Angeles and—’

  ‘Let me guess, they fell pregnant, a miracle? I’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘That must have been very hard for you,’ he said softly.

  ‘It was but I’m starting to accept it isn’t going to happen now. I just need to figure out what my life holds without children in it. I thought this was it,’ she added, gesturing around her.

  ‘Not everyone sees children in their future, sweetheart. I’m not even sure I do.’

  ‘Liar.’ She looked towards his date, a tall African American woman with the highest cheekbones Claire had ever seen. ‘What was it you said about Petra earlier? “Imagine what our children will look like, Claire.”’

  ‘It’s just an expression.’

  ‘Is it? Are you really saying you’ll never have kids?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe not,’ he replied in an unconvincing voice.

  ‘You will. It’s how we’re programmed to think. Think of all the books you’ve read, the films you’ve seen. There’s one lesson that usually runs through them: children are the greatest gift of all. Work means nothing. Ambition means nothing. As long as you have children, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Who cares what society thinks? I think you can make a life here, you know.’

  ‘Really? It all feels like Polyfilla.’

  ‘Polly who?’

  ‘Polyfilla, the gooey stuff that fills in cracks. Look at me, Jay,’ she said, gesturing to her designer dress and shoes. ‘Is this the Claire you met two years ago, the colour-clashing mess who placed more importance on the memories her clothes held than how they looked? We’ve both said how right it is that we’re here in San Francisco considering it was ravished by an earthquake but was able to rise from the flames. But you do know there are still scars in the earth from the earthquake, don’t you? They do a bloody Earthquake Trail so people can see them. It’s like us. The scars will never go away, no matter how much we try to paper them over. We have to accept them, dig down to our true selves, not try to cover the pain with gloss.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yeah. You deal with your mum’s death by dating one gorgeous stick-thin model after another. And me? I work harder, party harder. And now here we are, waiting for the century to tick over at a party to end all parties, packed with the great and good of San Francisco’s media set. It’s just—’

  A man walked past. A dash of brown hair, pale skin, dark stubble. He slowly turned and Claire held her breath, heart like thunder.

  Blue eyes.

  It wasn’t Milo.

  ‘Just what?’ Jay asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  She turned to stare at her face in the reflection of the window. It blended into the ocean below. A gust of winter wind swept over the water, the ripples creating scars on her skin.

  Where was Milo right now? He wasn’t behind bars, she knew that. He’d been found not guilty, and now his family farm had been sold, there were rumours he was working at a friend’s farm in Norfolk. But that was all Claire had heard over those months. That and the occasional blurry photo of Holly, who was sixteen now and living with her aunt, Milo’s sister Jen.

  Maybe he was travelling? She hoped so. She’d like to think her encouragement during their talks in Exmoor would make him follow his heart. Despite how awkward things had been between them outside court that day, she wished the best for him.

  Then it occurred to her. Was she following her heart? Meeting Milo and sharing their desire to travel had set something off in her. Maybe the hesitation she felt at Yasmine’s job offer meant that old wanderlust was stirring again. Short trips for the magazine didn’t feel like enough; she needed more, no strings attached.

  ‘Okay, so you say there’s no place in society for a woman like you,’ Jay said. ‘But maybe you can carve out a role for yourself in another way, use your writing skills to shine the spotlight on something important? God knows there’s more to life than what’s the latest hip city to visit and which hotels have the best spas. Only earlier, I was chatting to an old friend about what’s going on in Serbia. You know they actually think ethnic cleansing is going on out there? Maybe you can look into becoming a reporter and writing about issues like that?’

  Something inside Claire fluttered. ‘What charity did Sarah work for, the one that helps animals during war situations?’ she asked Jay.

  ‘The Audrey Monroe Foundation. Why?’

  ‘Sarah told me she was due to fly out to Serbia this year.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And maybe you’re right, maybe I need to do something with a bit more substance.’

  Jay frowned. ‘Like work for a charity?’

  ‘Like go to Serbia.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Claire, haven’t you seen the news?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe I can be of some use?’

  Jay laughed. ‘Helping bloody dogs?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know how this sounds,’ Jay said softly. ‘You can’t nurture your own children but maybe you can make a difference to the lives of vulnerable animals?’

  Claire took a quick sip of her champagne, a sense of anticipation beginning to build in her stomach. ‘I don’t care how it sounds. It feels right.’

  The music was suddenly turned down and someone shouted out, ‘Two minutes to go!’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Jay said to Claire, smiling slightly. He peered towards a waiter standing at the corner of the large room who nodded and started handing out glasses of champagne. Jay then jumped onto a nearby chair, his shiny shoes sinking into the silky cushion. ‘Everyone,’ he said, banging his fist onto the wall. A small painting fell to the floor, the frame splintering. ‘Ah well, it’s only a Hockney,’ he added with a wink.

  ‘Oh, just a few hundred thousand dollars then,’ Yasmine said, rolling her eyes.

  Jay waved his hand in the air. ‘Bah. Anyway, listen, I have important things to say, my wonderful wonderful friends.’ His face grew sombre. ‘Under a century ago, this wonderful city was ravaged by an earthquake. As I walk around these now-pristine streets, I also think of the fact Claire and I could so easily have been killed that fateful night. But like San Francisco,’ Jay continued as he peered out at the Golden Gate Bridge, ‘we’ve come back stronger and fitter than ever just in time to cheer in the millennium – even if the scars are still visible,’ he added, looking meaningfully at Claire. ‘I want to thank you all for joining me on this special evening to celebrate life.’ He lifted his glass. ‘To life!’

  Everyone cheered. ‘To life!’

  The lights in the room dimmed and Claire stood in the semi-darkness, her heart pounding. Could she really go to Serbia? She’d never been before and it had only been bombed a few months ago. That hadn’t stopped her dad, had it? Would it stop her?

  Everyone around her started counting down the seconds to the millennium; the room flooded with a different dazzling colour for each of those seconds. Jay jumped off his chair and pulled Claire close to him.

  ‘I suppose dogs aren’t so bad,’ he said. ‘Just don’t go getting yourself blown up, all right?’

  She smiled. ‘I won’t.’

  As they turned to watch fireworks light up the sky over Golden Gate Bridge, Claire felt the wanderlust inside her batting its wings. She imagined it soaring up into the sky, circling a bright red Catherine wheel before swooping towards the gleaming silver moon.

  10

  Ko Phi Phi Don, Thailand

  2004

  The rickety old boat bobs up and down on the turquoise seas and I press my hand against my flyaway hair, trying not to get sick. The girls had been
so excited when I told them I was going to Ko Phi Phi Don by boat, especially when they heard the boat’s name meant ‘sea monkey’ in Thai. I wish I could share their excitement but instead my tummy’s full of nausea and dread as I look out to sea, every shadow I see beneath the surface making my heart shudder because there’s a chance it could be a body.

  I’ve only been on a boat once before, nearly fifteen years ago. It had been with Mum just a couple of years after she’d left us. It was my fourteenth birthday and I was staying at the tiny beach house she’d rented in Brighton. She wanted to treat me to a boat trip around the coast, which included lunch too. But the combination of seasickness and food wasn’t good. Plus I hadn’t heard from her for four months so had been particularly resentful.

  ‘Oh Lou,’ she’d laughed as she’d held my hair back for the fifth time while I puked my guts up in the onboard toilets. ‘We’re so very different, aren’t we? You’re so fragile when it comes to things like this.’

  I’d felt a stab of hurt and anger then. ‘I’m fine now,’ I’d said, swallowing down the bile and slamming from the cubicle, splashing water over my face and avoiding her gaze in the mirror’s reflection.

  ‘You’re not upset, are you?’ she’d asked, putting her hand on my shoulder. ‘I meant it as a compliment. Why on earth would you want to be like me?’

  I’d forced myself to laugh, turning around to look her up and down. ‘I’m not upset. I just feel better, that’s all. And you’re right, why on earth would I want to be like you?’

  Her face had gone ashen and she’d turned away.

  I flinch at the memory now. I was just angry that she’d only got in touch every now and again. The truth was, I was desperate to be like her, this bohemian beautiful wisp of a woman who had men flocking around her. She was so confident and full of life. But every time I looked in the mirror or messed up in art class, I was reminded of the fact I was nothing like her… and never would be. I still feel like that in less confident moments, especially when at one of Will’s work dos surrounded by all his snobby work colleagues. But I always remind myself: at least I have my girls.

  At least I have my girls.

  Is that just an excuse for not getting off my butt and doing something with my life? Being a mother is something but is it enough all on its own? Aren’t plenty of people perfectly good parents? Maybe it’s not a good enough excuse to justify the way I’ve sat back most of my life and watched the world go by instead of living life to the full like Mum does… and like Claire Shreve did.

  ‘We’re here,’ Sam says, bringing me back to the here and now.

  I follow his gaze to see we’re close to Ko Phi Phi Don’s shore now. There are dozens of palm trees in the distance, the debris scattered around them making it look like they’ve shed their clothes. But a small voice inside me tells me those items were the flattened walls and roofs of the bungalows and villas that once sat there.

  ‘It doesn’t seem possible my mum could’ve survived this,’ I whisper, all my inner torment just now seeming so insignificant.

  Sam puts his hand on my shoulder as his friend anchors up next to the remains of a small rickety pier, shattered wood and upturned boats floating around us.

  ‘This place is usually packed with tourists arriving and leaving,’ Sam says sadly as his friend jumps off the boat and approaches a Thai official. They exchange a few words then the official peers over at us. I hold my breath. What if he doesn’t let us onto the island? What chance have I got of finding Mum then?

  But the official nods and Sam’s friend gestures for us to disembark. I let out a breath of relief. Sam helps me step off the boat and we pick our way through the wrecked labyrinth that was once Ko Phi Phi Don, feeling like we’re searching the remains of an earthquake. It’s so much worse here than in the parts of Krabi I’ve seen. I stop anyone I see to show them Mum’s photo, which isn’t many considering the place was evacuated straight after the tsunami and is only just starting to open up again.

  ‘Hey, you!’ says an American voice.

  I look up to see a couple I’d just handed Mum’s photo to walking back towards us.

  My heartbeat turns up a notch. ‘Do you recognise my mum?’

  ‘Just a painting of her,’ the man says.

  ‘Where’d you see the painting?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Just down there,’ the woman replies, pointing down the beach. ‘It’s where some bungalows used to be. You won’t miss it.’

  Used to be. If Mum had painted something, did that suggest she’d been staying in the bungalows?

  After saying our thanks, we make our way down the beach. Smashed bottles lie everywhere, the sand stained by the liquid spilling from them. People are walking back and forth between a pile of debris and a makeshift skip, throwing stuff in it, faces exhausted, skin grimy with sand and dirt. In the distance, people in blue scrubs, like those I saw at the temple, scour the beach. I know what they’re trying to find: bodies buried beneath the sand; many are still being washed up ashore each day. I try not to think about Mum being one of them.

  Then I notice something else a few metres away, a large blue elephant ornament with small mirrors dotted over it. It’s lying on its side, and is surrounded by the remains of a restaurant: a sign snagged into a half-broken palm tree with the words ‘Blue Elephant Restaurant’ etched into it, the tables and chairs that were once there no doubt swept away in the tide. There’s a Thai man of about sixty sitting on a chair in the middle of it all, looking down at a large framed photo of a woman, its wooden frame splintered, the glass broken.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sam asks.

  ‘I’ve seen that elephant before.’ I reach into my bag and take out Claire’s atlas to find the photo next to the map of Thailand. Sam looks over my shoulder as I hold it up and compare it to the blue elephant.

  ‘It’s the same restaurant,’ he says.

  ‘Yep. Holly James and Claire Shreve were here. Maybe Mum was too if she was looking for Erin.’

  I walk over to the man and he peers up. He looks exhausted, his black hair dishevelled. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I say, showing him the photo. ‘But is this the same restaurant?’

  He takes it warily like he’s been used to looking at family photos the past few days. ‘Yes,’ he says, pointing to Holly. ‘I know that girl, very pretty.’

  I show him a photo of my mum. ‘Did you see this woman too?’

  He sighs. ‘Yes. She upset girl with red hair.’

  ‘Upset her. What do you mean?’

  ‘She try to talk to her but girl get upset, tell me to take lady away.’

  ‘Anything else you remember?’ I ask, trying not to dwell on the image of my mum being forcibly removed from the restaurant.

  ‘I see lady arguing with man in that bar day before tsunami,’ he says, pointing towards where the Thai couple were clearing up.

  I feel my face flush. Mum wouldn’t steal, would she?

  ‘Do you know who the man was?’ Sam asks.

  The restaurant owner shakes his head.

  ‘What did he look like?’ I ask.

  ‘Thin, big nose, squint in eye. That’s all I know. Good luck to you, Miss.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I look around me. ‘Was this your restaurant?’ He nods sadly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m alive, my son’s alive. I very lucky. My wife die years ago, she looking down on us,’ he says, peering down at the framed photo.

  I stare at it, wondering who’s looking down on Mum.

  ‘We better find your mum’s painting,’ Sam says softly.

  ‘My mum wasn’t the type to get into arguments,’ I say as we continue walking down the beach. Sam doesn’t say anything and I realise why. ‘Okay, I know Mum and I had that big argument two years ago but that was half my fault too.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what happened the last time you saw each other?’

  I sigh. ‘It was Will’s thirtieth birthday so his parents arranged a garden lunch party at theirs and invited m
y mum. I was surprised; they didn’t seem to like her when they met her at our wedding,’ I tell him. ‘It was only later that I discovered the mayor’s wife was a fan of Mum’s art and Will’s mother is a fan of climbing the social ladder,’ I add, raising an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, Mum turned up and, at first, it was great, she looked lovely and was charming everyone. But then it all went downhill. Mum drank too much, argued with Will’s boss about politics and danced erratically, her hair falling from her grips, making her look wild, unkempt.’

  Sam sighs. ‘Awkward.’

  ‘Yes. Will was mortified and pulled me aside, telling me to “Deal with your bloody mother before she ruins any chance of me getting a promotion.” So that’s what I did.’ I flinch at the memory. ‘We argued, Mum said I was a stick in the mud like Dad, and I told her I’d rather be like Dad than some drunk failed artist who insisted on ruining my life.’ I shake my head. It’s awful remembering it now. ‘Mum ran out. I knew I’d gone too far then and tried to apologise but she refused to talk to me. Will gave her a lift home; she was silent the entire car journey apparently. And then nothing. No more phone calls, no more emails, no more dinners.’

  ‘You mustn’t dwell on that, Louise.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you? It was awful, the things I said to her, the way she looked at me.’

  I choke on a sob and go to turn away, but Sam puts his hands on my shoulders, making me look at him. ‘Tell me about a time you saw her smile,’ he says. ‘Any time. Just close your eyes and think.’

  ‘That’s silly.’

  ‘Do it! Trust me.’

  I peer back up at him. He looks so hopeful, so desperate to help. I take in a deep breath, close my eyes and suddenly I’m seeing Mum’s smile, that big wide all-encompassing smile of hers. She’s sitting in front of a window in her seaside beach house in Brighton, the sun shrouding her in a soft white glow. Strands of her hair float up in static, making her seem ethereal, like an angel. I’m sixteen and in front of me is an easel. I feel nervous, excited.

  ‘Just follow your instincts,’ Mum had said. ‘Don’t think too hard about it.’