She Chose Me

by Tracey Emerson

  As soon as she disappeared inside, I hurried over to the area of patchy grass and trees in front of her block—the optimistically named North Green Park. I spotted a metal bench partly hidden by a droopy oak and got myself settled. To my right and left stood four-storey blocks of flats. Satellite dishes clung to their balconies, fighting for space with dead plants and racks of washing. Hardly the nicest of areas and not where I’d pictured my mother residing.

  My eyes scanned her building, looking for a sign. Where was she? My body shook and a wave of nausea rolled through me. Fear or excitement? I was twenty years old, but felt reborn. As though my life had just begun.

  A light flicked on and off again in one of the upper windows of the building. I counted upwards to the ninth floor. My mother? The usual emptiness hovered at my edges. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to hug it away.

  Then she appeared at the window.

  I spy with my little eye. Something beginning with G.

  I decided then and there to buy some binoculars. My mother stared out of the window for some time, off into the distance. She probably thought she was looking at the view, but I knew better. She was searching for something. She was searching for me.

  4

  Tuesday, 8 September 2015

  Where the hell is my front door key? It jangles as I search my handbag but won’t give itself up.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ After a long day of teaching—two intermediate classes and one beginners—I’m desperate to get into the flat and unwind. My fingers locate the jagged outline of the key, which has slipped through a tear in the handbag’s lining and now lies trapped behind the silky fabric. This keeps happening, but I never get round to repairing the offending hole. Removing the key will entail taking everything out of the bag.

  I give up and turn to the potted rubber plant next to the front door. Hidden in the grey stones at the base of the plant is my key safe, a fake stone in a slightly darker grey than the rest. I take it out, open the compartment on the stone’s flat base and remove the spare key hidden there for emergencies. With my track record, I make regular use of it.

  The front door only opens halfway, hindered by the morning’s post. Crouching down, I gather up the envelopes and takeaway leaflets, holding them against my chest as I traipse along the hallway, finally depositing them next to the tall vase of lilies on the breakfast bar that separates the narrow kitchen from the living room.

  Dumping my leather jacket, backpack and handbag on the floor, I turn the living room radiator on to banish the early autumn chill. God knows how cold this place will be when winter kicks in. The gas boiler that powers the heating and water is ancient and fickle, but I tolerate it because the excouncil property is cheap and, as I keep reminding myself, temporary. After the short walk to Islington High Street, it’s only another thirty minutes down Pentonville Road to the Capital School of English. Plenty of buses to catch en route if the weather’s bad. The flat came furnished too. Handy, as I moved in with only a suitcase and rucksack. Two small boxes of books have arrived from Singapore since then but I’ve yet to open them.

  I fetch a glass of water from the kitchen and sip it while sorting through the post—money requests from Oxfam and Greenpeace and a letter redirected from Mum’s old address, enquiring if Mrs Polly Walker would like to renew her subscription to Baking World magazine.

  My chest aches. No, she will not be renewing the subscription. Mrs Polly Walker is still alive, but Mrs Polly Walker’s life is over. No more browsing through recipes for cupcakes and fruit tea loaf. No more baking the perfect Victoria sponge.

  I drop the letter onto the breakfast bar, resolving to deal with it later. Sometimes the more trivial demands of acting as Mum’s power of attorney are the most upsetting. Right now I’d give anything for a brother or sister to talk to. Someone to call and share tearful laughter with about Baking World magazine. We could reminisce about Mum’s culinary skills—safe territory. Yes, we would say, she was difficult sometimes, but her Victoria sponge was a winner.

  There is no one to call. The memories of my mother, good and bad, are mine alone. Morbid questions creep up on me. Who will sort through my post when I die? Who will tie up my loose ends?

  The sound of chirping crickets fills the room. Abandoning the post, I kneel down and rummage through my handbag for my mobile. My hands tremble as I pull it out. Always that flood of nerves, always the possibility of answering the phone to someone from Birch Grove and hearing that Mum’s weary body has finally surrendered. The call both feared and hoped for.

  My phone displays an unfamiliar number.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘It’s me.’

  I let a few seconds pass before saying, ‘John?’ As if I didn’t recognise his voice straight away. ‘You shouldn’t be calling me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have given me your number then.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t have.’

  In the pause that follows, I recall his hot breath in my ear. His hoarse voice whispering my name.

  ‘Guess where I’m calling from?’ he asks. I guess but don’t reply. ‘My car,’ he says.

  The two of us squashed onto the back seat of his VW Golf, a jumble of limbs and half-discarded clothing, laughing at the windows steaming up around us.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘that was fun—’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ He is quiet now, sincere. ‘I enjoyed talking to you.’

  ‘I enjoyed talking to you, but that’s not the point.’ Or maybe it was. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay on the phone and talk to him again. Last night I spoke to a woman from an Indian call centre for ten minutes, just to pass the time. The woman’s voice was warm and comforting, and to listen to it for longer I answered her marketing survey questions—I don’t own a car, I use a MacBook Air, my mobile provider is Vodafone.

  ‘You understand what I’m going through,’ John says.

  I sigh. ‘Please don’t call me again.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon though. We can hardly avoid each other.’

  ‘Goodbye, John.’

  I hang up and pour a glass of Merlot. The bottle is half empty, which is odd, as I rarely drink during the week. I thought I’d only had one glass out of it at the weekend but must have drunk more. Opening the door next to the kitchen sink, I step out onto the narrow balcony. A raw gust of wind attacks. I turn my face to it, take a sip of wine. Too weary to analyse my conversation with John, I decide that what happened between us was just a one-off. A mistake best forgotten.

  I try to lose myself in the view. Tower blocks with golden windows and cranes studded with blinking lights litter the north London skyline. In the distance, illuminated, the dome of St Paul’s. Stunning. Not quite as dramatic as the outlook from the twenty-first-storey flat I rented in Singapore, but at least I’m still high up. Out of reach.

  I miss my old life. Humid evenings in Chinatown with the other teachers from the English Language Institute, washing down dim sum and chilli crab with bottles of Tiger beer. Weekend trips to Malaysian islands and longer holidays exploring the parts of South East Asia I hadn’t already visited or lived in. Hard to believe I’ve been back in the UK for five months. Five months in limbo. Unable to settle and unable to move on. Dad’s death twenty-two years ago,—a heart attack in his sleep—was swift and unexpected. Mum’s demise is like waiting on a cold station platform for a slowly approaching train.

  Screams, laughter and aggressive rap drift up from the park. Teenagers crowd round one of the benches, cigarette and spliff tips glowing. Seven years since my last cigarette, but I still suffer the occasional craving. Still linger on the balcony most nights in echo of an abandoned ritual, just to look at the view and let the day drain away.

  ***

  Glass empty, I return indoors to get changed, swapping my work outfit of black jeans and a grey batwing top for grey tracksuit bottoms and a black sweatshirt. Grey Uggs replace my black ankle boots.

  After putting a vegetable lasagne in the oven to heat up, I co
ntinue sorting through the post. When I lift up a brochure offering promotions from a nearby supermarket, a white A4 envelope falls onto the breakfast bar. I rip it open and pull out a card.

  On the front, a heart made of pink roses. Beneath it a greeting in thick, pink letters.

  HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

  I stare at the card, confused. Mother’s Day is months away and besides, who would send me a Mother’s Day card? I’m not a mother.

  Inside, the card is blank. I examine the front of the envelope. My name and address printed on a label, the blurred postmark illegible.

  My forehead begins to throb.

  HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

  I carry the card and envelope to the hall cupboard. Junk mail, I tell myself, as I shove them into the red recycling box. Just junk.

  5

  Wednesday, 22 July 2015

  The back of the silver picture frame slid into place with a click. I turned it over and gazed at the photo of my mother and me. My face took up most of the shot, but I could still see her, two seats behind me on the bus, oblivious.

  The sound of light snoring drifted through from my bedroom. I placed the photograph inside the writing bureau and closed the lid. Wandering naked around the living room, I gathered up socks and boxer shorts, black skinny jeans and a blue-and-black-checked shirt. They all ended up in a heap on the brown leather lounge chair.

  I paused for a moment in front of one of the sash windows and looked out into Highbury Fields. Joggers and dog walkers were out in force, even though it was almost 11 p.m.

  ‘Hey.’ Ryan appeared in the bedroom doorway, a towel round his waist and a shy grin on his face. ‘Sorry about that. I don’t usually fall asleep.’

  ‘Well, you did give quite the performance,’ I said with a smile.

  He laughed. ‘You were pretty good yourself,’ he said in his Aussie drawl.

  I’d given him the kind of sex he would remember. Offered myself in positions that would keep him coming back. ‘What about this joint you promised me?’ I said.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He spotted his clothes on the chair and retrieved a tobacco tin from the front pocket of his shirt. ‘Is that an Eames?’ he asked, nodding at the chair.

  ‘An original.’

  He whistled in appreciation.

  I lay on the wide, white sofa and beckoned him to join me.

  ‘This flat is amazing,’ he said.

  ‘It is.’ Amazing because I could get to my mother’s flat in half an hour on foot, less if I took the bus and less again if I went by taxi.

  ‘I love Georgian architecture,’ he said, gazing up at the high, corniced ceiling. ‘Is this your place?’

  ‘It’s a rental. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’

  He took in the rest of the room, commenting on its size and admiring the white marble fireplace opposite the sofa. ‘The rent must cost you a ton?’

  ‘It belongs to Quentin. My… my father.’

  I rested my pale calves on Ryan’s tanned thighs while he pieced together a joint of pungent grass with the same earnest attention he gave to his lattes and cappuccinos. Every now and then he touched the black feathered wings tattooed across his smooth chest, as if to check they hadn’t flown away. Swirls of italic writing covered his arms, but I couldn’t be bothered to read them.

  This morning, I didn’t even know Ryan’s name. He was just a waiter in Aroma on Islington High Street, my mother’s favourite café. A trendy place—exposed stone walls, mismatched china cups and saucers. My mother and I had visited it together on several occasions, she at a table by the window, me on the café’s mezzanine level. I’d noticed Ryan straight away with his blond quiff, goatee beard and warm smile. My mother liked him too. Whenever he brought over her tea, they would chat for a while, and when she laughed, he laughed with her. My mother had a raucous, infectious laugh and a husky voice that commanded attention. Embarrassing, the two of them flirting like that, especially at her age.

  This morning, as I’d watched Ryan show my mother one of his tattoos, I had no idea we would end up in bed together. I don’t know why I gave him my phone number and made it obvious what he could expect if he called it. Maybe I wanted to be closer to my mother, to feel part of her life. After two weeks of surveillance, we’d only exchanged three sentences and touched once. I knew I had to be patient but couldn’t help wanting more.

  Ryan flipped open his gold Zippo and lit the joint. After a quick drag he passed it to me. ‘Here you go.’

  The grass soon had me giggling. I tried not to think about the promise I’d made Dr Costello—no drugs other than those he prescribed to me. Body buzzing, I handed the joint back to Ryan.

  ‘You’re bloody cute,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t ever call me cute,’ I replied and asked him a few questions about his life. He turned out to be quite the talker after a few tokes. I discovered he was twenty-three and a recent graduate in media and communications from the University of Sydney. His maternal grandfather came from Birmingham, and Ryan had always wanted to come to the UK. He’d arrived in London eight months ago and now lived in Finsbury Park with his friend and fellow Arsenal fan, Nick. They were researching the idea of starting a coffee-roasting business together. Ryan said he considered making coffee an art form, and I blamed my laughter on the spliff.

  ‘I love London,’ he said. ‘Reckon I could stay here for good.’ He described the dull Sydney suburb he grew up in, talked fondly of his parents and his two older sisters. ‘Where are your family from?’ he asked.

  I sat up, reached between his legs and took hold of him with a grip that made him groan. Oh Christ, he said when I took him in my mouth. Oh fuck, he gasped, as he emptied himself.

  ***

  Afterwards, as Ryan dozed on the sofa, my phone buzzed from the top of the writing bureau. I checked it and found a text from Quentin: Hope all well. Skype soon? Any probs with flat just ring agency.

  I didn’t reply.

  Taking care not to make any noise, I reached into the bureau drawer and removed my scrapbook with its shiny silver cover. I wasn’t in the mood for poring over my past, so I ignored the front of the scrapbook and opened it from the back instead. There I found the leaflet for the Museum of Childhood and, on the next page, a cinema ticket for the old film my mother and I had watched together a few days ago. That famous rom-com from the 1980s where the woman fakes an orgasm in a café. My mother hadn’t struck me as the romantic type, but it takes time to get to know someone. Halfway through, she’d removed her scarf from around her shoulders and draped it on the back of her chair. It fell to the floor in front of me. Right onto my boots. I considered picking it up and holding it close but couldn’t risk her turning round and catching me. Instead I let it lay there, a dark coiled thing, until the credits rolled and she stood up.

  ‘You dropped your scarf,’ I said, bending down to retrieve it. The scarf was deep red in colour and the soft, light fabric had to be cashmere. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As she took it, the tips of my fingers touched her hand. First contact. Her clammy skin, the cool metal of her ring.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, but she had already reached the end of her row and was on her way out. I dropped back into my seat, savouring the delicious tingling in my fingertips until the lights came up and an impatient usher asked me to leave.

  6

  Saturday, 19 September 2015

  ‘All tickets please.’ The conductor rests a hand on the seat in front of me, displaying long nails painted like Union Jacks. I hold out my ticket, but she barely glances at it before moving on.

  The 9.30 a.m. from Liverpool Street to Norwich will reach Brentham in fifteen minutes. Every Saturday I pray for a delay of some kind to cut short my visiting time, but it never happens.

  I jump as a train clatters past in the opposite direction, packed with people heading for the capital. Further down the carriage, a baby wails. Reaching into my bag, I remove the white A4 envelope that arrived this morning.

  Unease r
ipples through my bloodstream as I tear into it. Inside is a leaflet advertising the Museum of Childhood. My breath catches, but then I remember meeting Zoe there for lunch a few months ago. A fun reunion, but we could have picked a better venue. So much noise and then a little boy at the next table fell on me, leaving my shoulder bruised for a week. To top it all, I left my sunglasses in there. An expensive pair I’d saved for ages to afford. I rushed back to the café as soon as I realised, but someone must have taken them. I gave my contact details to the girl at reception in case the glasses turned up, but she must have put me on the mailing list instead.

  Relieved, I slide the leaflet back in the envelope. Silly to get worked up over nothing.

  ***

  Birch Grove is roughly a thirty-minute walk from Brentham station, but I take the longer route through the town centre. The High Street is already crowded with shoppers enjoying the warm sun and fresh autumn breeze.

  I walk past an Apple shop, formerly the Woolworths where I had my first Saturday job. Brentham’s population must have tripled since those days. Housing developments for commuters have taken over former car parks and patches of wasteland. Factories that made ball bearings during the war are now luxury apartments. The engineering firm Dad worked for has survived, although it’s now located miles away in some industrial estate.

  Debenhams is still here too. Mum got a part-time job in the home department when I started at the grammar school, went full-time when I began university and remained there until retirement.

  Half an hour later, I reach an estate of 1970s houses. Streets and cul-de-sacs of identical detached homes in light brown brick. The house I grew up in is one of them, but instead of going there now, I carry on through the estate until I reach Birch Grove.

  The care home is a two-storey, L-shaped building with a car park at the front and a small garden at the back. Ten years ago, during Birch Grove’s construction, Mum declared the white concrete structure ugly and insisted it wouldn’t weather well. The building’s shabby façade has proved her right. Black streaks stain the concrete beneath the windows, like smudged mascara beneath teary eyes. But the interior of Birch Grove is clean and purpose built and much better than the other places I looked at.