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

by Tracy Buchanan

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered to her, putting his hand out to her.

  She hesitated a moment. She had to keep her wits about her. And yet the way he was standing there in his black cargo trousers and tight grey T-shirt, the way his cheeks were flushed... She felt her body respond, growing warm, almost feverish.

  She took in a deep breath then grabbed his hand. He smiled, leading her out of the building and into the cold air which smelled of fire and revolution. They stumbled down a network of alleyways, his fingers wrapped around hers, a sense of urgency pulling them both along. Eventually, they reached a hidden patch of grass with a memorial at its centre, the sound of the Danube rippling nearby. Milo helped her climb over the black iron fence surrounding the memorial, then pulled her against him. They were still for a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes, then Milo smashed his lips against hers. Her body reacted violently, her fingers digging into his hair as they stumbled across the garden and down towards the ground, the smell of mud and grass making memories from three years ago merge into now.

  His fingers fumbled with the edge of her skirt as he pulled it up and she undid his trousers, movements brisk. But as she did so, a thought shimmered into her mind. There was another time like this, wasn’t there? Three years ago, Milo’s eyes sweet, yearning, his fingers soft. Now they were hard and he could barely look into Claire’s. Something inside her slivovica-infested mind recognised the difference.

  She placed her hand over his and he looked up, confused.

  ‘Milo,’ she said as softly as she could, suddenly feeling very sober. ‘It’s not the right time.’

  For a fleeting second, she saw disappointment in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by something softer. He removed his hand, and gently smoothed her skirt over her legs without saying a word.

  He stood, put his hand out to her and helped her up.

  When they got back to the sanctuary later that night, Milo took Claire’s hand once more before she walked back into the farmhouse.

  ‘Can you get the afternoon off tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so, I haven’t really had a day off since I arrived. Why?’

  He smiled. ‘You’ll see.’

  The next afternoon, as Koštunica was accepted as the country’s new president, Milo and Claire disappeared into Serbia’s countryside down the River Danube on a rickety old motorised boat he’d managed to get hold of, leaving the celebrations behind.

  Trees bent over the river, their branches dipping into the water. All kinds of birds hopped from tree to tree, merrily chirping away as though they too understood what was happening to their country that day. It was warmer than it had been all week, giving Claire an excuse to wear the pretty eggshell-blue summer dress she’d bought.

  As they drifted down the river, she peered over at Milo. He looked content, or as content as she’d seen him in a while anyway, his face relaxed, his eyes squinting as he looked up at the sun. She remembered the feel of his lips on hers the night before. She’d been drunk, both of them had, and now she felt that nervousness of the morning after, not quite believing the kiss had happened.

  Milo moved the boat towards a small clearing at the side of the river surrounded by trees, the ground heavy with soft grass. The sun poured into the clearing, creating a soft yellow glow. As the boat bumped against the edge, Milo jumped out, tied the rope around a nearby tree and helped Claire onto land. Then he reached under a blanket and pulled out an old picnic basket.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

  Claire smiled.

  He reached out for her and she took his hand, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. He spread the blanket on the floor and Claire sat, opening the basket to see huge chunks of bread, plump tomatoes still on their vine and jars of kajmak, a cheesy Serbian spread she’d grown to love. There was a bottle of lozovača too, a grape brandy she’d seen Nikola drinking, along with two plastic glasses.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Claire said.

  ‘I wanted to do something special. I need you to know how much you mean to me.’

  She didn’t know what to say. It still felt so new, so fragile, and she wasn’t sure where she wanted to take this.

  There was a strange clicking noise from the river. They both turned to see two odd-looking birds with spiky black feathers on their heads floating across from each other, taking turns to shake their heads.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Claire asked.

  ‘They’re great crested grebes,’ Milo said. ‘It’s how they woo the ladies.’

  Claire looked towards the food. ‘But you do it with cheese spread and brandy.’

  He shrugged. ‘Hey, I’m a smooth operator.’

  ‘Okay, you keep telling yourself that.’

  Over the next hour, they ate and drank, laughing about things at the sanctuary, chatting about how much Holly was growing. After a while, Milo pulled out an old portable CD player with speakers attached to it and played a Serbian folk CD he’d been given. As Claire listened to the low, sensuous voice of the woman singing against the background of a Serbian lute, she felt her head grow woozy from the sun and brandy.

  ‘I think I’m going to end up in the Danube if I drink any more of this,’ she said, gesturing to her glass.

  ‘I’d like to see you in the Danube,’ Milo said, his eyes running over the low neckline of Claire’s dress. ‘You know they call lozovača the juice of love?’ he added, his face growing serious.

  Claire smiled. ‘You’ll have to try better than that.’

  He leaned over and grabbed two long leaves, jutting them out from the back of his head and shaking it at her like one of the great crested grebes.

  She laughed.

  ‘Did it work?’ he asked, lowering the leaves, his face growing serious.

  Her smile slipped from her face. She knew there’d be a moment like this, had agonised over it all night. Could this really work out between them, two people scarred by their own tragedies? Could it work out for her? She’d come here to leave the past behind, to make a go of a new future. But then hadn’t meeting Milo paved the way for that new future? It wasn’t until she’d met him in Exmoor that she really understood what she wanted.

  Without giving herself the chance to explore the answer to those questions, she impulsively leaned over and pressed her lips against his. It felt strange to kiss him without the blur of alcohol and cover of night. Strange and wonderful. He wound his arms around her and pulled her close to him. Their kiss deepened, making her feel like she was tumbling down a whirlpool.

  He gently pulled her dress over her head and she leaned back onto the grass, feeling nervous as his eyes travelled all over her. She’d lost so much weight and the bra she was wearing was grey from being washed too much. But he didn’t seem to notice, whispering she was beautiful as he pressed his lips against her collarbone and unhooked her bra. She stroked the bristles of his hair, felt the thud of his pulse as his chest pressed against hers. Then she pushed up his T-shirt, running her fingers over his chest, his arms. He was thinner than she remembered too, but she could feel the muscles, taut and wiry.

  They carefully finished undressing each other, touching each other, kissing each other. Then he gently nudged her legs apart and it was like all that had happened since they’d first kissed no longer existed as he sunk into her.

  Soon, they grew frantic, desperate to get past skin and flesh and feel as much of each other as they could, the trees stirring above, the river rippling nearby. When Milo came, he cried out, looking at Claire with raw desperation.

  ‘Don’t give up on me,’ he said as he wrapped his arms around her, her head sinking against his chest. ‘Promise me?’

  ‘I promise,’ she whispered.

  When they got back to the sanctuary a few hours later, Nikola was passed out in the yard, his arms curled around a bottle of vodka, an Otpor flag in his outstretched hand. Claire and Milo smiled at each other as they stepped over him.

  ‘He must’ve been drinking today,
too,’ Claire said.

  ‘He has a lot to celebrate. And so do we,’ Milo said, leading her into the kitchen and pulling a chair out for her. ‘That’s why I’m going to make you the best supper this ramshackle kitchen can offer.’

  She leaned her chin on her hand, unable to keep the smile off her face as she watched him potter about, remembering the feel of his fingers, his lips, everything still making her skin tingle. Yes, what they now had felt fragile, like those buildings she’d seen on the way into Belgrade, damaged, heavy with history, so brittle they might collapse at any moment. But they didn’t collapse, did they? They remained standing, despite everything, and so would she and Milo.

  And she knew Milo felt the same too, the look of disbelief on his face making him seem like a child contemplating something new and wonderful.

  Then Filipe’s deep voice filled the hallway and the sound of running echoed outside. Milo stepped away from Claire as Nikola walked in, face tense.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Milo asked him.

  ‘Luna ate one of the pups,’ Nikola said in a slurred voice. ‘She tried to eat the others too.’

  Claire felt nausea rise inside. ‘Ate?’

  ‘Same happened with one of our Jack Russell bitches back on the farm,’ Milo said.

  Claire gripped the edges of the table as uninvited images flooded her mind. ‘But why?’

  Nikola leaned against a chair, his eyes blinking as though he was trying to get used to the idea himself. ‘I’ve heard of it but never seen it until now. Four of them are fine, two not so much. Filipe said there’s nothing that can be done for the two. They’ll need to be put down, Filipe’s doing it now.’

  Claire put her head in her hands. It was all too much. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘It happens a lot, Claire,’ Milo said softly as he placed his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It doesn’t make it any less horrible! Will any survive?’ she asked Nikola.

  ‘Maybe a couple.’

  Filipe appeared in the hallway, face livid with anger. ‘The boxes were labelled wrong. It’s the wrong fucking medication. The same happened with the eye drops last week. Audrey needs to bloody change suppliers.’

  ‘Does that mean you can’t put them down?’ Claire asked.

  Filipe shook his head.

  ‘I have a shotgun,’ Nikola said, ready to walk out.

  Filipe blocked his way. ‘No, you’re too drunk.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Milo said, striding towards the door.

  ‘Wait!’ Claire grabbed his wrist, thinking of the last time he’d held a gun. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘You heard Filipe, they’re in pain.’

  ‘We should do it soon,’ Filipe said.

  Milo looked at Claire briefly then strode out of the farmhouse with Filipe. Nikola opened one of the cupboards, doing what he always did in a tense situation: reaching for a bottle of slivovica.

  ‘I just don’t get why Luna would do that,’ Claire said, taking the glass Nikola had poured for her.

  ‘Luna was there when NATO bombed Belgrade. It must’ve done something to her up here,’ he said, tapping his temple with his finger.

  ‘I wish the pups could be saved.’

  ‘No, Claire. It’s—’

  A shot rang out and they both put their hands over their ears. When Claire lowered her hands, she heard shouting.

  ‘Just the puppies,’ Filipe shouted out, his voice ringing through the walls. ‘Didn’t you understand, Milo? Just the fucking puppies.’

  Claire ran outside to see Milo standing in the middle of the yard, the shotgun hanging by his side. Filipe was striding up and down in front of him, shaking his head.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Claire asked.

  Filipe looked up at her. ‘Milo shot Luna.’

  ‘Govno yedno,’ Nikola muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

  Claire looked at Milo, not quite believing what Filipe had just told her.

  ‘She was about to attack another one of the surviving pups. I had to stop her, Claire. It was the only way.’

  ‘Not the only way, Milo,’ Filipe said. ‘You were – what do you Brits call it? – trigger-happy.’

  Everything seemed to shift around Claire, the sky wobbling, the hills shimmering.

  She ran to him, yanking the gun from his hand and throwing it across the yard. It clattered against a trough of water, knocking it over and spilling dirty water everywhere.

  Milo stared at her blankly, his words from earlier ringing in her ears.

  Don’t give up on me, Claire.

  14

  Ko Phi Phi Don, Thailand

  2004

  Mum’s painting is leaning against a large palm tree that must have withstood the force of the wave. There’s a huge crack down the middle, meaning half of it is hanging off, the paint smudged. It’s of Mum, a turquoise sea spread out before her, and it doesn’t look quite finished; one of the eyes missing, the one remaining eye seeming to stare right into my soul. She probably meant to paint her best friend Erin on it, too. It’s strange to see this new painting, Mum’s once beautiful face hardened by age. The last time I saw one of Mum’s paintings was a few months ago on a London events website when I was trying to find things to do with the girls over the summer holidays. I’d been scrolling through the pages when my eyes had snagged on her familiar brush strokes – yet another painting of her with Erin. This one showed them both underwater, faces blank. It terrifies me to think of that now. Next to the painting was a photo of Mum looking so different, older and more weary.

  It made my heart hurt to see that she was exhibiting in London and yet hadn’t been in touch to suggest meeting up. That’s what we used to do when I reached my late teens and beyond: use her exhibitions as an excuse to meet up. I’d catch a train to her launches – London, Manchester, Liverpool, Brighton. I’d walk around, a glass of wine in hand, pretending I knew what I was looking at, all the time just wanting to watch my mum charming all the party-goers, swirling around some gallery or another in a long flowing dress, her dark hair loose and curly.

  She’d always come to me at the end of the party, just when I was starting to get angry and frustrated that she wasn’t paying me enough attention, and she’d sweep me around in her arms, shouting to the room, ‘Look, it’s my beautiful daughter!’ making me feel like the most precious thing on earth.

  And then we’d go out for dinner with her bohemian friends and they’d gush about my mum’s talent, asking if I painted, too. The special feeling would go then. Instead, I’d feel awkward, left out and humiliated, having done nothing but office work since leaving school. Mum would laugh, say, ‘Of course not, Lou’s too clever to splodge paint on canvas like me. She’s wonderful at her job, her boss gave her a pay-rise last week, you know? Fastest typist in the West, she is.’ And everyone would laugh and I’d feel even worse, sure my mum was ashamed of me, mocking me.

  But looking back, I think she sensed my discomfort and was only trying to deflect attention away, make me feel better. I’d do the same for my girls.

  Sam walks towards Mum’s painting now and gently runs his fingers over the streaks of red and orange. ‘Like fire,’ he says. ‘There’s a question mark in her eye too, see?’

  I see Sam’s right, the pupil a circle in a question mark. ‘She did the same in some other paintings,’ I say. ‘When I asked her why, she said it was a symbol of our desire to discover the truth about ourselves, the eternal question: who are we really? I think she often asked herself that, having not really known her parents.’

  I used to think that was pretentious. But now I understand it, especially since that eternal question has burned into my mind during the past couple of days: who am I? What’s my purpose? The only thing I’m sure of is my role as Chloe and Olivia’s mother.

  ‘She must’ve been staying here if she painted the walls,’ Sam says. ‘Or maybe the bungalow’s owner paid her to do it?’

  ‘She painted the walls at home sometimes. Drove Dad insane.’
I can almost see Mum doing that now, standing on tiptoes, her arm moving in graceful arcs as she sweeps her paintbrush across the wall.

  My mobile phone rings. We both look at it in surprise. Sam had warned me that though some networks had restored their connections, many hadn’t. ‘You must be one of the lucky ones,’ he said, peering down at his phone. ‘Still nothing for me. Though I managed to call my mum earlier from someone else’s phone: she’d not heard of Claire, Milo or Holly. As far as she was concerned, your mum was out here for a change of scenery.’

  I sigh. ‘Worth a try.’ I look down at my phone. ‘It’s my dad anyway. I better take it.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’ll go do some searching.’

  He strolls off and I put the phone to my ear. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Louise? Is that you?’ He’s shouting the way he does whenever he talks on the phone. My heart goes out to him.

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘I called the girls earlier. Will said you were going to some island.’

  ‘That’s right, I’m here now.’ I look around the shattered shore and try not to think about how Dad would feel if he saw all this.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘You know I would come if I could, Louise.’

  ‘I know, Dad,’ I say softly. He hates travelling on planes. In fact, he hates travelling on anything other than trains, his anxiety making it difficult for him.

  ‘It’ll be her birthday next month,’ he says. There’s a catch in his voice when he says that and I realise this must be hard for him too, Mum missing. He’d never stopped loving her, just hated the way she got when Erin disappeared.