The Good Mother

by Karen Osman

  I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to get used to life on the inside. I read somewhere that some inmates – especially those who have been inside for many years – struggle to come to terms with so much freedom once they’re released. It must be a very strange feeling. I understand that these letters are supposed to help with the start of rehabilitation and I do hope they lend some insight to life today.

  Shifting positions in her chair, Catherine continued.

  So enough about me – if you’re comfortable, I would really like to learn more about you. What is your routine? Do you volunteer for any particular jobs there? And this may be a strange question, but have you made any friends in prison? I understand I’m still a complete stranger to you, so please don’t feel you have to answer if you don’t want to. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

  Catherine

  PS. If you would like me to send you anything specific such as books, newspapers, or toiletries, please just let me know.

  Catherine had always considered herself a good letter-writer and she was banking on this skill to establish a good relationship with Michael. Yet, it was difficult to find neutral topics, or to try even to guess what a person in his circumstances would want to read about. Ever practical, Catherine decided that she would do some online research before she had to head out later that afternoon for a dental appointment. Logging online, she wished she had done it earlier. Typing in the search bar, 165 million results came up. She wondered where to start. She clicked on the first link and started to read. It was a good couple of hours later when she lifted her head up from the screen, her brain still trying to process what she had learnt.

  She was shocked that, in England and Wales, the number of people in prison in 2009 was almost 85,000 and the UK was still the top incarcerator in Western Europe. And it wasn’t mainly men, as she had imagined – the number of women had increased by 44 per cent in the last decade. Catherine could barely bring herself to read about the number of children in prison but she was determined to learn more, so she pressed on. Not only were there children in prison but there were also over 160,000 children with a parent in prison. Catherine struggled with the reality of it, becoming hyperaware of her comfortable middle-class life. Yet she had always had a deep sense of empathy and she felt something shift inside her as she read about the number of children born in prison. She dug further and when she came to information about re-offenders, she felt her heart quicken as she read that an astonishing 47 per cent of adults are reconvicted within one year of release.

  Straightening up in her chair, Catherine felt a surge of anger at such a possibility. Now she realised just how important it was to connect with Michael. The thought of someone else suffering at his hands was unbearable. In her next letter, she would be more careful what she said. So engrossed was she in her thoughts that it was several hours before it struck her that she had missed her dental appointment. It was only when the phone rang, that she realised the time.

  ‘Hi,’ said Richard. ‘How was the dentist?’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ Catherine responded. Hesitating, she tried to come up with a plausible excuse. ‘Actually, I ended up not going—’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, I suppose,’ interrupted Richard. ‘Did they cancel? I’m guessing you’ll have to reschedule.’

  For once, Catherine didn’t mind that her husband’s daily phone call was hurried and distracted. Not wanting to correct his assumption in case he asked what she had been doing, Catherine quickly responded, happy to be on truthful territory.

  ‘Yes, I will, absolutely. In fact, I was just about to call them, when you phoned.’

  Changing the topic, Catherine asked, ‘How’s your day going so far?’

  ‘Not bad – busy. It was just a quick call to check in. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘OK, bye.’

  Her husband was not a huge talker on the phone. In fact, he wasn’t a man of many words in general. Years ago, when they used to socialise a lot more, Catherine had got frustrated when she arranged dinner with other couples as she often had to do the talking for both of them. She tried to recall what they used to talk about. With his background in accounting, he was a very practical man and she suspected the younger generation would consider some of his traditional ways almost sexist. Yet, he was also surprisingly fun and she remembered that it was this aspect of his personality that was appealing. He was a family man at heart, brought up on solid values. With Richard, you would never have to worry about his having an affair or spending all their savings. Yes, there had been issues – of course there had; they had been married a long time – but overall he had made sure his family had everything they needed. He had never wanted her to work a single day since she met him. Not that he had a problem with her working; he just wanted her to enjoy motherhood without the stress of having to work as well. Looking back, she hadn’t regretted that decision but she did love her voluntary and charity work. In fact, she liked to be kept busy in general. Being a housewife hadn’t really suited her and she’d done it for a few years but she had been keen to keep learning and Richard had encouraged her. As she felt herself slide back into the memories of the past, she sharply interrupted her own thoughts. Richard wasn’t perfect but he was a good husband and after so many years of marriage she could still honestly say that she loved him just as much now as she did in the beginning – in fact, probably more. There weren’t many couples who survived marriage these days. The divorce rate was high, and she could understand why. Marriage was hard. It took courage to forgive and forget, and that was just the little daily annoyances. And then, of course, there were the major challenges: the arrival of children, money worries, parents-in-law, boredom, and so on. They all took their toll and she knew they had both experienced times when they could have easily walked away. But ultimately, it wasn’t in Catherine’s nature. She wasn’t the type of person to give up. Sometimes, the only option was to fight back, whatever the consequences.

  Chapter 8

  Alison

  The break over the Christmas holidays was a relief for Alison and she spent much of her time sleeping. She hardly went out at all apart from a little last-minute Christmas shopping. She felt depleted, drained, especially in the mornings when her limbs felt so heavy it was difficult to get out of bed. Some days she would manage to rouse herself just enough so she didn’t give her parents cause to worry too much. She could sense their concern and surprise that she was so withdrawn but she simply didn’t have the energy to pretend. Her mum, clearly happy to have her home, bustled around bringing comfort foods of chunky vegetable broths, warm roast beef sandwiches and meaty stews. She helped Alison unpack her bags, did her washing, and asked questions about her university life.

  Alison responded as best she could, telling her about Laura, the socials, and the students. But she never mentioned her results from the first term. She felt flashes of humiliation as she remembered the feedback she had received and she pushed it to the back of her mind. But the anxiety was always there in the pit of her stomach, a seed in the earth, its roots growing slowly but surely. There seemed to be no solution; she couldn’t work any harder and she didn’t want to tell anybody how difficult she was finding the course for fear of being the odd one out as nobody else seemed to be finding it challenging. Durham University had been her dream and her parents had been so happy when she had got her place there. She couldn’t disappoint them.

  After the first week at home, Christmas Eve dawned crisp and clear. Alison woke up earlier than usual, and the glimpse of the blue sky through the gap in the curtains, so unusual for this time of year, caught her attention. Padding across the floor in her socks, she drew back the curtains and took in the view of her childhood. Neighbouring houses – home to people she had known all her life – presented a pretty contrast to the snow-capped hills of the North-East. A touch of frost glazed rooftops and gardens, and while the trees were bare, leaves long lost to autumn, birdsong welcomed the weak but determined warmth of the sun. Unex
pectedly, Alison felt a rush of mixed emotions: happiness at the sheer beauty of a scene that was so familiar to her, sadness that she had moved on to a new stage in her life that wasn’t going as well as she would have liked, but perhaps most importantly, a sense of hope. Alison reminded herself that 1998 was just around the corner – it would give her a chance for a fresh start at university. Feeling better than she had in days, Alison slipped on her dressing gown and went to make coffee for her family.

  *

  For many people, Christmas Eve was full of traditions, and for Alison and her family, it was no different. Early in the morning, she and her sister went shopping with their father to the market to buy the vegetables, pick up the turkey, and have a bacon bun breakfast together in a café, while her mother had a lie-in and a rest before the cooking, arrival of visitors, and general preparations started in earnest.

  Since her teenage years, it was also traditional for Alison and her school friends to go out in the evening. A group of six, the friends had met at primary school and had remained close all the way through secondary school and sixth-form college. In their early teens, they had all met up at someone’s house and when they were older, they’d gone into town to the pubs and bars. This year was going to be extra special as they were all catching up with each other’s news after being away since September. With so much shared history and experience, it had been an emotional goodbye as the friends had departed for different university cities: Edinburgh, London, Bristol, Lancaster and Nottingham. Alison was the only one who had decided to stay local and she was eager to know how her friends were getting on. They had been planning the Christmas Eve night out for a few weeks and everyone was really looking forward to it.

  That afternoon, Alison reluctantly looked in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight – pale, pinched, and without a scrap of make-up, she didn’t look like herself at all. She noticed a small stain down her front, probably from lunch, and her hair, scraped back in a ponytail for days now, needed a good wash.

  Stripping off the offensive T-shirt and dumping it in the washing basket, Alison headed to her wardrobe. Selecting a pair of jeans, a fitted red top and the highest-heeled boots she could find, she laid everything on the bed. Something was missing. In her parents’ bedroom, she rifled through her mother’s collection of handbags, until she found the one she was looking for – a small diamanté clutch. Placing it next to the outfit, she saw it looked just right. Then she washed her hair, put on a hair mask, and took a long soak in the bath.

  By seven o’clock she was ready. It had taken all afternoon but she was pleasantly surprised by the results. She had done her hair so it fell in long waves, and carefully applied her make-up – not too much, but she knew her eyes were her best feature so she emphasised them with a smoky shadow, eyeliner and lots of mascara. With a last look in the mirror, she almost didn’t recognise herself. As she said goodbye to her parents, their look of relief was unmistakable. They even forgot to remind her not to be in too late. As she wished them a Merry Christmas, she felt a whisper of her old self returning.

  *

  It had been such a fun night. Alison had forgotten how easy life could be with friends who had known her for years. Drinks and conversation flowed easily and she found herself laughing and joking about their school days, long before university, when everything seemed a lot simpler. Over the evening the friends had been to several pubs and, feeling tired and a little tipsy, Alison almost didn’t make the last stop, a sophisticated wine bar, which had recently opened. But her friends begged her to come and as she was having so much fun, she thought, why not? One last drink and then she would head home. Linking arms for warmth, the girls sauntered off down the street without a care in the world, singing Christmas carols and debating whether to stop off at the chip shop. When they arrived at the wine bar, the place was packed and they squeezed through, singing and dancing, much to the crowd’s amusement, drawing attention to themselves and loving every minute of it. Drinks appeared and they merged into the sea of revellers to enjoy the rest of the evening.

  An hour or so later, and by now slightly unsteady on her feet, Alison was ready to go home and she weaved her way through the bar to get to the loos before getting a taxi. On her way back, she caught sight of a familiar face and it was a moment or two before her drink-addled brain realised who it was. The Professor smiled and walked over, wishing her a Merry Christmas. Despite her tears at their last meeting, he was gentlemanly enough not to bring up that fact that he had sat with her for forty-five minutes handing her tissue after tissue.

  ‘Hello,’ Alison said, smiling, the wine making her bold.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine – better, thanks.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Merry Christmas!’

  ‘Merry Christmas!’

  And with that, she said goodbye to her friends and headed out into the sobering cold, feeling ridiculously happy.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, her elation was plummeting as quickly as the freezing temperatures. There wasn’t a taxi in sight and she was a good few miles from home. Her feet were starting to throb from the height of her boots and Alison decided to walk in the direction of the bus stop, hoping to catch a taxi on the way. Another fifteen minutes later, and she was shivering, trying to keep warm in the bus shelter. She chided herself for being so ridiculous as to think she could easily pick up a taxi on Christmas Eve. She was just about to go to the phone box to call her parents for a lift when a sleek, black car pulled up beside her. The smooth hiss of an electric window, and a voice called out, ‘Fancy a lift?’

  She knew who it was, but she peered in anyway just to be sure. The Professor was leaning over, already opening the passenger door. Without thinking, Alison quickly got in, enjoying the warmth of the heater as it defrosted her hands. He leant over to adjust the warm vents in her direction and Alison could smell his scent – a mixture of fresh air, aftershave, and the festive atmosphere of the bar. It was as intoxicating as the wine. She leant back and closed her eyes, savouring the relief at being on her way home without having disturbed her parents. After a few moments, she opened them and saw his handsome profile watching her, the car not moving. Smiling, he put the car into gear and they glided off, the engine quiet, the only sound coming from the low volume of the Christmas carols on the radio.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she acknowledged the moment. It felt like the calm before the storm. They didn’t speak but in the secluded privacy of the car, the atmosphere felt charged. Later, Alison realised that moment had been pivotal – the actions she took then would have consequences. If she had even imagined for one moment just how catastrophic those consequences would be, she would have run for her life.

  Chapter 9

  Kate

  It was Tuesday and Kate was running behind schedule. She had promised her husband that he wouldn’t need to do anything if she went out to her night class, as the girls would both be fast asleep. But since she’d picked up her daughter from school, both girls had been difficult and now, at 6 p.m., she was still trying to get them to finish their dinner. She knew she still had a long way to go to get them both settled and asleep within the hour.

  ‘I don’t want it. It tastes horrible,’ pouted her younger child.

  ‘Just two more spoonfuls of carrots and then you’re done,’ countered Kate.

  ‘No!’

  Forget terrible twos, what about terrible threes, Kate thought to herself. If she heard the word ‘no’ one more time, she thought she might scream.

  Sighing, she gave in and gathered up the dishes, scraping the carrot into the bin. She hated wasting good food and she just knew that in an hour her daughter was going to be hungry again, exactly at the time she should be fast asleep. Kate wondered if children were specially programmed to know when you had plans for yourself so they could sabotage them.

  Putting the dishes in the sink, Kate hoped she would find the time to wash them. If there was one thing that her husband h
ated, it was coming home to a sink full of dirty dishes.

  ‘OK, girls, time for your bath,’ she said, trying to muster the energy to sound like having a bath was the most fun thing in the world.

  ‘I want to play with Mary-Beth!’

  Kate pretended not to hear.

  ‘Come on then, let’s go,’ she said, lifting her daughter down from the table. ‘Which toys do you want to take into the bath with you?’

  ‘Mary-Beth! Mary-Beth! Mary-Beth!’ she chanted.

  Mary-Beth was her younger daughter’s rag doll and went everywhere with her. She’d lost it once and, to the toddler, like so many things, it had felt like the end of the world. In an effort to find Mary-Beth and to console her daughter at the same time, Kate had turned the hunt into a game of hide-and-seek, searching the house from top to bottom. But the doll was nowhere to be found. Her daughter was inconsolable and Kate had kicked herself for making the rookie-parenting mistake of not buying a second one as a back-up. In the end, having no choice but to leave the girls with her husband, she had spent the afternoon traipsing through the rain, going to the places they had visited that morning to see if anyone had handed the doll in. After scouring the supermarket, the park and the pharmacy, Kate found Mary-Beth in the post office.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied the postmistress, when Kate had wearily enquired about the lost doll. ‘I found it tucked behind the leaflet stand. I kept it safe, as I know how important a doll can be to a little girl. I wondered who it belonged to so I’m glad you came back for it – just in time, too, as I was about to close.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ replied Kate, the relief evident in her voice.