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

by Tracy Buchanan

  ‘I don’t want to get it wrong. You might hate it.’

  She’d laughed. ‘By whose definition of wrong? Remember what I always say, beauty is truth, truth—’

  ‘Beauty,’ I’d finished, doing an eye roll, having heard the phrase so many times from her.

  ‘Exactly! Truth is what you feel here,’ she’d said, ignoring my eye roll and placing her fist against her heart. ‘Regardless of what others say. So just do what you think is good and beautiful and it will be wonderful, I swear!’

  So I’d done just that, painting a picture of me and Mum eating ice creams. Mum had stared at it in wonder afterwards, her eyes filling with tears, her hand going to her mouth, a huge smile on her face.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she’d said.

  As I’d looked at the strange mish-mash of colours I’d used, the awful blunt lines, I couldn’t fathom what she saw in it. But now I’m a mother, I understand. Her daughter had done it and that was enough.

  I open my eyes, smiling at the memory.

  ‘See?’ Sam says. ‘Hold onto that, okay?’

  ‘I will.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘Thank you, Sam. You don’t know what a godsend you’ve been.’

  He shrugs, embarrassed. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  We fall into silence. As we walk on, the beach around us gets steadily worse. It looks like it’s littered with driftwood cast ashore, the only sign bungalows were ever here the concrete slabs that were used for their foundations. I can’t even bear to think about the fact Mum might’ve been here when the tsunami hit.

  We step over the debris just as we’ve been doing all day, scouring the rubbish for Mum’s painting. And then it’s right there: Mum’s face, eight foot tall, painted in swirls of red and orange on a wall.

  Sam places his hand on my back; he doesn’t say anything, just encourages me with that gesture. I feel uncharacteristically brave, something I rarely experience when I’m at home. Maybe that’s why Will was so surprised when I’d told him I was coming out here to find Mum? He was so used to me being meek and mild.

  Not any more.

  ‘You okay?’ Sam says.

  I close my eyes briefly and imagine seeing Mum in the distance, hair stirring in the wind, long skirt swishing around her legs. She waves, smiling that same smile she wore when she looked at the painting I’d done of her… like she’s proud of my work, moved by it even. She shields her eyes with the sun and shouts out, ‘You’re getting close, Lou!’

  I open my eyes and look towards Mum’s painting, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m fine. Let’s go look at the painting.’

  11

  Fruška Gora, Serbia

  2000

  Claire tried to conceal her shock as she took in her first views of Belgrade. The buildings outside her taxi window were scorched and windowless, like charred paper decorations hanging from the sky, ready to crumble at one puff of breath. She’d been aware of what she might see when she’d agreed to a three-month volunteering stint at the animal sanctuary Sarah Levine’s boss was setting up here. NATO had only just bombed the city the year before in an attempt to end President Slobodan Milošević’s oppression of Albanians. But she’d never dreamed it would be this bad.

  Her sister Sofia had been incredulous when Claire had told her she’d be coming here. It amazed Claire how quickly Sofia had forgotten the way things had been when they’d travelled as kids, the war-torn countries they’d trekked through. Sofia had also pointed out how damaging it could be for Claire to be in such a fragile country so close to the three-year anniversary of the shooting. Claire needed peace and security, she reasoned. But Claire thought it was just right. There was no gloss here as there was in San Francisco, just the truth. That meant no more burying her head in the sand. Claire wanted to get on with discovering her place in the world and to do that she needed to be somewhere real and true.

  As the taxi left ravaged buildings and cratered roads behind, the views were soon replaced by lush green plains and beautiful little villages. Rusty tractors passed by on country roads, the faces of the young men riding them dusty and red from the heat. In the distance, gleaming white monasteries overlooked the hills, the black metal crosses rising from their grey domes puncturing bright blue skies.

  She wound the window down to relieve the stifling heat inside the taxi and the strong scent of roses from a roadside flower cart drifted into the car. The woman behind it waved at her, the large bells on the red bracelet wrapped around her wrist tinkling, the skirt of her long black dress lifting in the breeze. Claire smiled, breathing it all in, such a contrast to San Francisco.

  That all changed when the farm she was staying at came into view. It was like a stray NATO bomb had rolled onto it. Fences slid into sludgy ditches, old stone walls crumbled onto the muddy road, weeds strangled abandoned troughs. In the middle of the farm’s yard was a large skip surrounded by three buildings – a tall white stone house that might have been grand once but now half its ceiling was missing, and two collapsed wooden barns, one with a rusty old tractor peeking out of its innards. Even the view was savage. The farm squatted at the top of the hill and looked out over the worst-hit parts of Belgrade through a tangle of hedges snagged with rubbish.

  ‘I’m told the view will improve, once the hedges are cut down,’ an accented voice said from behind Claire as she stepped from her taxi.

  She turned to see a tall man with short blond hair and black-rimmed glasses standing nearby. He was wearing a black polo neck and jeans, which struck Claire as quite insane in the heat.

  ‘Filipe,’ he said, putting his hand out.

  ‘Claire,’ she said, shaking it. ‘You’re not Serbian, are you? Your accent is different.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m from Finland. Audrey tells me you will be documenting our work here. I’m the resident vet.’

  ‘Very impressive. My PR role seems wholly inadequate now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be roped in, too. Shall I show you to your room, madam?’ he joked.

  She looked up at the crumbling house. ‘Will there be a fruit basket?’

  ‘No, just a chocolate mint on your freshly washed pillow.’

  They both laughed and Claire knew right then they were going to be great friends.

  The farmhouse wasn’t much better inside. Most of the rooms didn’t have walls or windows and the floors were grimy with rancid hay and chicken muck. As they walked past the kitchen, Claire took in the torn-out cupboards and ancient-looking oven. In the corner was a pile of books – stained, dusty classics like Paradise Lost and The Odyssey.

  ‘How many people are staying here?’ she asked.

  ‘It depends what day it is,’ Filipe said, shrugging. ‘We have builders and different volunteers turning up every now again. But there are three permanent residents for now: you, me and…’ He sighed. ‘Nikola.’

  ‘Why the sigh?’

  ‘You might find him a little hostile. He lost a friend during the NATO bombings and what with British forces being so heavily involved…’

  ‘But I was so annoyed when our government got involved!’

  Filipe put his hands up. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve got het up about a political situation.’ She smiled to herself. ‘It feels quite refreshing actually. When are the animals arriving?’

  ‘They’ll arrive in two weeks when the main barn is finished.’

  Claire peered out of a window towards the collapsed wooden barn. ‘Just two weeks?’

  ‘Yes, it will happen, you’ll see.’ Filipe led her to the back of the farmhouse and opened a door. ‘Your five-star room,’ he said with a sarcastic flourish.

  It was tiny with a single bed and a see-through plastic sheet for a ceiling. In the corner was a box draped with a pink shawl, which acted as a makeshift table. It even came with its own pets: three gigantic spiders hanging from a dusty web in the far corner.

  Four hours later, the light beige vest top she’d changed into wa
s soaking with sweat and smeared with mud. She leaned against the good side of the wrecked wooden barn and gulped down the water Filipe had brought out for her.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ he said, looking towards the skip, which was now full of old chairs, troughs, glasses, dead birds and more. He’d been boarding up parts of the more intact barn all afternoon, which they were planning to use as kennels.

  Claire smiled. She had done well. Just a few hours in and she finally felt she was doing something right instead of simply papering over the gaping hole left by her infertility.

  ‘Nikola, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to stick that bloody thing up, Audrey won’t have it,’ Filipe said, sucking in a mouthful of smoke and blowing it out. They were sitting in the ramshackle kitchen after an awkward dinner during which Nikola, a young Serbian man with caramel-coloured hair, glared at Claire with open hostility just as Filipe had predicted.

  Claire watched the smoke from Filipe’s cigarette circle his head then drift towards the black and white poster Nikola was proudly holding up. On it was an illustration of a clenched fist next to a photo of Milošević’s back. Beneath it in large white font against a black background were two words: ‘Gotov je!’

  ‘But this isn’t just politics,’ Nikola said in good English. ‘It’s what we must do.’

  ‘What does the poster say, Nikola?’ Claire asked, trying to show him that, just because she was British, it didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in his views. He’d barely said a word to her since arriving, just glared at her over his glass every now and again. But she was determined to win him over.

  He contemplated her for a few moments then laid the poster on the table, pointing at the clenched fist at its middle. ‘This is our – how do you say?’ He looked towards Filipe.

  ‘Logo, symbol,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Nikola said, face full of energy, ‘this fist is a symbol of the courage of people who want change. Not just want it,’ he said, leaning towards Claire. ‘Demand it.’

  Claire felt a small burst of triumph. This was exactly what she was doing by coming to Serbia, demanding a change in her life. Even Nikola’s open hostility wouldn’t ruin the sense of liberation she was feeling at that moment.

  ‘Except we don’t demand with violence like your country did,’ Nikola added, leaning back and assuming his standard glare.

  Claire nodded. ‘Good. I don’t agree with what NATO did. You can’t fight violence with violence.’

  He tilted his head, examining her face. ‘Yes, exactly. And this,’ he said, running his slim fingers over the black Serbian words beneath the clenched fist, ‘this means “He’s finished” because there’s no hope for Milošević now, do you understand?’

  ‘I fear you’re going to be disappointed when the elections come next month,’ Filipe said.

  Nikola muttered something to him in Serbian, and Filipe turned to Claire. ‘He says I’m old and cynical.’ He looked back at Nikola. ‘No, I’m just realistic. I respect what you Otpor boys are doing but—’

  ‘Otpor?’ Claire asked.

  ‘It’s the youth movement Nikola’s a member of,’ Filipe explained to her. ‘It was formed by a group of university students to resist Milošević’s rule. They’ve been very effective in getting people behind Milošević’s opposition candidate Vojislav Koštunica in the lead up to the elections.’

  Nikola puffed his chest out. ‘Yes, Otpor is very strong here. Everyone’s talking about us.’

  ‘They’re also talking about how naïve you all are,’ Filipe said, sighing.

  ‘Why naïve?’ Nikola asked, glaring at him.

  ‘Because I heard all this talk when I was here before. But look, Milošević is still in power! Things don’t change so quickly. Once something bad happens, it takes time to heal, sometimes a lifetime.’

  Would it take Claire a lifetime to heal, too?

  ‘This time is different,’ Nikola said. ‘Can’t you feel it in the air?’ He slugged back some beer, peering out into the darkness, his hazel eyes blazing. ‘Next month, Serbia will change. Milošević will be gone and you will be too embarrassed to sit at the table with me because it will remind you of how wrong you were.’

  ‘It sounds like Nikola might be right,’ Claire said. ‘I saw a news item in the UK the other day saying support for Milošević is dwindling.’

  Nikola looked at her again with that inquisitive stare, like he was trying to figure her out. Then he smiled slightly.

  ‘Right, enough of this,’ Filipe said, placing a bottle of gold liquid on the table and looking at Claire. ‘A new member of the team means slivovica.’

  An hour later, that slivovica seemed to be pulsing right inside Claire’s temples, its plummy flavours making her lips tingle. Other Serbians had turned up, including a girl with cat-like eyes who entwined herself around Nikola. As the night wore on, Claire heard less and less English and more Serbian.

  Feeling left out, she and Filipe scraped their chairs back into the corner and bent their heads together as they talked about travelling and their pets, especially how much Claire missed Archie, who was staying with Ben. After five glasses of slivovica, Filipe leaned back in his chair and fixed Claire with his steel-like stare. ‘So why are you fractured?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Audrey only invites certain people to work here. A certain damaged kind of people.’

  Claire thought of the conversation she’d had with Audrey when she’d called her the morning after the New Year’s Eve party a few months ago to ask about volunteering. She had seemed inordinately interested in Claire’s reasons for going out there. When she’d impulsively mentioned her infertility and a need for a fresh start, Audrey had instantly said yes.

  ‘Then I presume that means you’re fractured, too?’ Claire asked, avoiding answering the question.

  Filipe smiled sadly, swilling what remained of his slivovica around the bottom of his glass. ‘I found my ex-boyfriend Kaarle kissing another man.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. The Kaarle I thought I knew wouldn’t do that. I’d clearly just loved someone who never existed, a ghost. So how can my heart be broken when the love hadn’t been true in the first place?’

  Claire thought of Milo then, of the contrast between the man she’d known in the short time they’d spent together and the man who’d hung his head low and barked those bitter words that day in court.

  Was the Milo she thought she’d known just a ghost?

  She sighed. It had been a while since she’d thought about him properly; the papers hardly mentioned him nowadays.

  ‘Now you must tell me about your fractured heart,’ Filipe said.

  And so she did, every little bit, from the time she found out she was infertile to that night in Exmoor and the months that followed. It felt good to talk about it so openly to a near stranger. In fact, it reminded her of how she’d unburdened herself on Milo in that beachside café nearly three years before.

  ‘Do you miss Milo?’ Filipe asked when she finished.

  ‘What is there to miss? I only knew him a couple of days. It’s like you said, he’s a ghost.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t think he’s a ghost. He’s more like an iceberg. A part of him broke away when his brother did what he did, the same part that made you fall for him. Without that part, he doesn’t know how to love anyone.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t know how to love anyone either.’

  He tilted his head. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The day I found out I was infertile, it felt like something broke away from me too. That’s why Milo and I never had a chance in hell, neither of us capable of loving. It’s like you said earlier, wounds can take a lifetime to heal.’

  Filipe pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘You know, in Finnish mythology, there’s a place called Tuonela, the sphere of the dead. It’s not usually possible for a living person to go there, but if a shaman is brave enough, Death’s Maid will let them pass
through.’

  ‘Lucky shaman,’ Claire said sarcastically.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is, maybe you can find that piece of you that was lost and bring it back? Maybe Milo can find his, too. Maybe you can help each other find your missing pieces.’

  Was Filipe right: had she been too hasty in giving up on her and Milo and the pieces they’d lost? She closed her eyes, saw his scarred face looking so real she could almost reach out and touch it.

  No, Milo was part of her past, not her future.

  She slugged her glass back, felt the warm liquid pinching at her throat and her head growing woozy again. ‘I’d rather stay in the land of the living, thanks,’ she said, holding her glass out for more.

  That night, all she could hear were the sounds of Nikola’s feline girlfriend moaning, the thud of the headboard against the thin walls, his Serbian whispers husky, urgent. When Claire finally slept, the sounds seeped into her dreams, and it wasn’t long before she saw Milo in her dreams, Nikola and his girlfriend’s moans becoming theirs as she returned to the river that fateful night, and what might have happened if Dale hadn’t done what he did. She woke angry with herself. Why was she still thinking of Milo? She needed to leave him behind.

  But still she dreamt the same dream every night over those next two weeks, the feel of Milo’s touch, the sound of his moans growing more and more intense, so intense she woke frequently in the night, hot and frustrated.

  When Filipe noticed how tired Claire was looking, she said it was just work, which was easy to believe as it was non-stop at the sanctuary. The whole point of her being there was to bring attention in the UK to the charity’s work as a way of getting donations from the animal-loving British public. This didn’t just mean writing press releases and web copy but also pitching articles to the UK media about the sanctuary, just like she had when she was seventeen and trying to fund her travels to find her dad. Then, when she wasn’t in the makeshift office Nikola had set up for her, she was tidying more rubbish away in the yard.