Only a Mother

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  He was obsessed with the news after Lucy went missing; he could barely sleep from worrying. I tried to comfort him, but he withdrew into himself, barely eating. I had to stand over him to make sure he’d get something down him.

  As a photograph of Jenna appeared on the television, I asked him if he knew her. He said he didn’t, but they went to the same school, in different years. He’d never talked about her.

  ‘I need to pop to the shop,’ I said. ‘I’ve run out of cigarettes.’

  He sat up straight in the chair.

  ‘Really? Do you have to go out?’

  ‘Unless you want me clawing at the wallpaper in ten minutes, yes.’

  He stood, hands deep in his pockets rooting for money.

  ‘I’ll go for you, Mum. Actually, I feel like a jog – I’ll not be long.’

  He was only out of the door a few seconds before I dashed to his bedroom. I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. I looked under his bed, pillows, inside his wardrobe. Nothing.

  I went to his chest of drawers. Among the old coins and dead batteries was a necklace – a choker with a large daisy pendant. It could’ve been there for years, could’ve come from anyone. So I left it. Closed the drawer. Nothing of importance. How could I have suspected my own son? I felt awful. I’ll do his washing to make up for it, I thought to myself. From the age of seventeen he’d been doing his own laundry; he was usually pretty good at it, but that week he’d done nothing except sleep, eat, and watch telly with me.

  A mistake. I wish I’d never emptied the damn basket.

  At the bottom of it, under piles of socks and pants, was his light blue T-shirt. Blood covered the collar, there were blobs of it down the front. I dropped it on the floor in a panic.

  ‘Got your cigs, Mum!’ he shouted from downstairs.

  I piled everything back into the laundry basket, everything except for that T-shirt. I darted into my bedroom and stuffed it under my bed.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ I shouted back, hoping he didn’t hear the quiver in my voice. ‘I’ve got one of my hot flushes. I’m just having a lie-down.’

  He never asked questions if I mentioned anything to do with women’s problems.

  Then, his bedroom was cluttered, covered in old Lego creations he hadn’t wanted to part with, rows of VHS films, an X-Files poster above his bed. Now, it’s a shell of a room, like one in a hotel. Anyone could be sleeping here.

  The box Jason brought round is on the desk. Inside is a silver-coloured laptop, a few magazines (which I hope were a joke) and a bottle of vodka. A little inappropriate, but nothing out of the ordinary. He always said Craig was like a brother to him, always protective of him. They haven’t seen each other properly for so long – only the short visits in prison. I suppose they have a lot of catching up to do.

  Most of Craig’s clothes are piled next to the box. It’s like he’s not stopping, that he doesn’t want to stay with me.

  No, I shouldn’t think like that – he’s adjusting to being here, that’s all. He’s not had a chance to buy new things yet.

  His black holdall is on the floor near the radiator under the window. I pick it up and place it on his bed. Unzipping it releases a strange smell: chemicals and stale sweat, mixed with other odours I can’t put my finger on. There are socks paired in balls; underpants piled together and rolled. So neat. Underneath these is the last book I gave him: Pharaoh by Wilbur Smith. It makes me smile a little that he brought it home.

  I feel along the bottom of the bag; there’s a lump in the middle. I prise the plastic base up and lift it out. There, gathered in a tan-coloured elastic band, is a bundle of letters.

  I flick through them. Teenage scrawl, words punctuated with hearts.

  There are no envelopes and they are all from the same person, signed:

  L xxx

  The blood rushes from my head; I feel dizzy. I perch on the end of his bed. These letters can’t be from Lucy, can they? Written years ago, that he kept? She’s never going to go away, is she? Haunting me as though it’s my fault. I’ve read about strange goings-on in Take a Break’s Fate and Fortune. I always thought people made it up, but what if there’s something in it? Finding these letters and seeing the girl yesterday could be a sign. Maybe she’s angry that the real killer hasn’t been found. Yes, that must be it.

  I’d been restless since I found the letters in Craig’s bag – only sitting down for five minutes at a time – looking out of the window to see if I could see him, or the young girl I saw the other day, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. They finally rolled in at half past eight, drunk. Over ten hours of drinking after Craig not touching a drop of alcohol for years (although he has said in the past, ‘Nothing is impossible in here’ – I pretended not to hear that).

  They brought back some tinnies. Now, Jason’s sprawled along my settee and Craig’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. They’re watching a film on BBC One about swimming, but it has Kevin Costner in it, so it’s not all that bad.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ asks Jason.

  I might be an ex-smoker, but I’m not pious with it.

  ‘I’ll get an ashtray,’ I say, wearily, but Craig jumps to his feet, swaying slightly as he gets his bearings.

  ‘I’ll get it, Mother,’ he says.

  ‘What’ve you been up to today?’ Jason asks me.

  ‘Learning Cantonese on YouTube.’

  ‘Oh.’ He nods slowly. ‘Right. Fair play.’

  I roll my eyes. He takes me ever so seriously, it’s too hard not to wind him up – plus he’s as drunk as a newt. I’ve only ever watched music videos on YouTube – it’s amazing how far back they go. They even have the ABBA collection on there.

  I’ve wanted to go to bed since they came back, but I didn’t want to feel pushed out of my own living room. Once I start that, it’ll become a habit. Just like when I let Craig have everything he wanted in his bedroom as a teenager: a television, a video player, his meals. I hardly saw him. That might have been where the trouble started.

  Craig leans over to Jason and whispers something. He laughs in return.

  It must be a remnant of my childhood that I always think someone’s talking about me if they whisper in my company.

  ‘What about that one with the fringe?’ says Jason. ‘She was well after you.’

  ‘Nah she wasn’t. She was probably curious.’

  ‘Oh, curious. When did you start talking all posh?’

  I’ve had enough. I stand, clearing my throat.

  ‘Night, boys,’ I say.

  I linger at the doorway.

  ‘I was thinking, Craig. I could sort the dining room out … it could be an extra living room.’

  I know it’s as bad as him being cooped up in his bedroom, but I don’t think I can face the anxiety of today … wondering when they’ll be back – worried about how long Jason’ll stay.

  ‘Really?’ says Craig.

  He’s frowning and swaying as he sits.

  We’ve never used the dining room. It’s only tiny and it has my mother’s furniture in there. I still can’t look at her things. All those pieces she inherited from her own parents that meant so much to her. But they’re a heavy presence – taking over a whole room of the house that I never use. When she died, I gave all her clothes to the church. I didn’t even look at them individually; I couldn’t, without picturing her wearing them. It was too upsetting. Especially as I could have saved her.

  Four-thirty in the morning and I can hear the television blaring from downstairs. I must have drifted off for an hour or so, but I keep thinking about those letters in Craig’s bag. I had only read snippets from one of the letters: I think about you all the time and I feel like we know each other inside and out. I didn’t want to think about the last sentence too much – not after what happened to Lucy. He must have written back for her to keep sending so many letters. Will his replies still be in her bedroom? Or perhaps her parents have put away her things – the pain of seeing them a constant reminder that she’s not c
oming home.

  I jump as the front door slams shut. Jason must’ve left.

  I go downstairs, but there’s no one in the living room. I grab the remote, flick off the television and my ears ring with the silence. Once in the hall, I notice that the light in the dining room is on, the door ajar. I push it fully open; it stops against a mahogany dresser, and I find Craig sitting near the back window in my mother’s old chair. It’s a tall wing-backed one; the fabric patchy, threadbare in places. He looks incongruous in it. His feet are on top of her occasional table. I’m surprised it takes the weight – it’s such a flimsy piece of furniture.

  I shimmy my way past the white wicker laundry basket, two chests of drawers, and some cardboard boxes. It smells musty in here, like a garage: damp. Even though I leave the radiator running during the day so mould doesn’t breed.

  Craig’s eyes are focused on the five pictures – ordinary nondescript landscapes, framed in various woods – that are leaning in a bundle against a small chaise longue. It’s surprising how much furniture can fit in such a tiny room.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ I say. ‘Craig?’

  Silence. Does he realise I’m standing in front of him? He’s wiggling a bottle of beer that he’s holding by its neck. They must’ve gone out for more drink after I went to bed.

  ‘I might as well be inside.’ His eyes quickly meet mine. ‘What’s the point of me being out, if I have to be home at a certain time like a bloody teenager?’

  ‘But it won’t be forever.’

  ‘I thought it would be different being free. That people – even if they thought I was guilty – could see that I’ve been punished. My life has been destroyed. I can’t be the person I want to be – there are too many rules I have to follow. How am I supposed to live a normal life when I’ve all that hanging over me? I was so naive to think I could be a personal trainer. God, what an idiot.’

  He speaks so eloquently for someone who’s been drinking for almost twenty-four hours. He must’ve drunk himself sober, if there’s such a thing.

  ‘We could move, if you want.’ I say it quietly, slowly. I don’t want to let on that I’ve been dreaming of moving for so long.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m nearly thirty-eight. I should be thinking about branching out, shouldn’t I? But the only job they’ll give me will pay a pittance. Is it really worth it? And I’ve got that ridiculous counselling session I have to go to. I must’ve had my blinkers on inside. They said it’d be hard, but I didn’t listen. My best mates are still in there … they’re the ones who know the real me. Not even Jason …’ He sits up straighter. ‘Did I tell you that one of them’ll be out in a couple of days?’

  ‘No. What’s he inside for?’

  He shrugs. ‘The usual.’

  ‘What’s the usual?’

  ‘We didn’t really talk about the past. We talked about the future.’

  ‘OK.’ I fold my arms. It’s so cold in here. ‘What’s the counselling for, love?’

  ‘To help me settle,’ he says, almost shouting. He doesn’t even look at me.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I can’t tell him I was listening in, but why would his supervising officer say he needed to go if there was nothing wrong?

  ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?’ he barks. ‘What would be the point in that?’ He leans back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. I give him a moment to calm down. I wanted to ask him about the letters I found, but he’s in no mood for that. And he wouldn’t take too kindly to me snooping among his things.

  ‘They’ll put you in touch with organisations, won’t they? Somewhere you can feel useful.’

  He opens his eyes, but he’s looking at the ceiling.

  ‘Useful?’ He gives a short laugh then sighs. ‘Yeah. I’ve always wanted to feel useful.’

  Is he making fun of me?

  The grandmother clock behind him suddenly begins to tick – for the first time in over thirty years. My mother loved that clock, but the sound of it used to make me so anxious. The house was rarely quiet, except for when Mother was in one of her moods. She could go from being cheerful to affronted in a second. Granted, I was a little clumsy as a child – always knocking cups of tea over. She recovered as quickly, though. Always apologetic, but during her silence all I could hear was the ticking of that stupid thing.

  ‘Did you wind that clock up?’ I say.

  He shrugs. ‘No one ever believed me when I said I could never have done those things to Lucy,’ he says quietly, ‘but you did, didn’t you, Mum?’

  His eyes are glazed and won’t meet mine. He must’ve taken something; this can’t be just from the drink. I can’t predict his mood from one second to the next.

  Tick, tick, tick. I want to smash that thing with a hammer.

  ‘I never thought you were capable of doing something like that.’

  The clock is taunting me.

  He brings his head level again and his eyes meet mine.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me who my father is?’

  I unfold my arms and rest my hands on my hips.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘Where did that come from?’

  He finally lowers his head and meets my gaze.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think about things,’ he says, tilting his head to the side. He’s almost too calm now. ‘I didn’t want to bring it up during our visits – wanted to keep them nice and light for you … well, most of the time. I was ignorant at the start – unseasoned, you might say. But I’ve always wondered about my father. How could I not? Did you think I’d just forget about him?’

  I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

  ‘I … I’ve nothing else to tell you. I don’t know his name.’

  ‘You’ve said that before, but you’re not like that … you were never one of those women.’

  ‘What sort of women? There aren’t those women.’

  He shrugs again.

  ‘He gave me the wrong name,’ I say. ‘I tried looking him up in the phone book when I was expecting you. He wasn’t listed.’

  ‘And he wasn’t local?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Does Denise know who it is? Did she meet him?’

  ‘How could you bring her name up in this house – after what she did?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mum!’ he shouts. He leans towards me and I startle, taking a step back. ‘Stop changing the subject all the fucking time!’

  My whole body is shaking.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to change the subject, I was only—’

  ‘A lot of people have wronged me,’ he says, leaning back again. ‘I used to believe in karma, but now I know it’s a load of bollocks. Bad people get away with murder, and good people … they’re the ones who suffer.’

  He’s staring at the wall behind me, with a look on his face that’s chilling – like he’s wearing the mask of someone I don’t know.

  Slowly, his eyes meet mine again.

  ‘Yes, Denise. Good old Denise, eh?’ he says. ‘I wonder what happened there. Did you say anything to her? About what you did for me?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. And I wouldn’t have done that if I thought you were guilty. She betrayed me, too, Craig. We were friends for over thirty years before she did that – she was like a sister to me. What she did hurt me – and you – so much. She’d known you since you were a baby. I’ll never forgive her.’

  ‘Jason said she was asking about you.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone talking about me.’

  He takes a deep breath that lasts for nearly ten seconds.

  ‘Mum, Mum, Mum.’ He’s shaking his head. ‘I asked you about my dad and you’ve turned it around.’ He brings up the bottle and toasts it in the air before taking a sip. ‘You’re clever. I’ll give you that. But I’m not a kid any more!’ He barks the last sentence through gritted teeth.

  ‘I don’t know his name, Craig!’ I shout. ‘What would it solve now?’

  The tea
rs are building behind my eyes, but I don’t want to cry in front of him.

  ‘Just because it happened to you – that you never knew your father – doesn’t mean everyone is like that. I want a name, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s something I can’t give you! How many times do I have to repeat myself? What do you want me to do, make up a name? That would be pointless!’

  I wipe my face. The tears stream from my eyes despite my efforts.

  He sits forward suddenly, making me jump, but he’s only reaching for my hand.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I know you’ve been the one who’s been there for me. We’ll save this conversation for another day.’ He drops my hand and looks around at his grandmother’s belongings. ‘Why do you keep all this crap? You don’t have people round much, do you?’

  ‘It’s not crap. And I don’t mind not having visitors,’ I say. ‘It’s better for me that way.’

  ‘Why?’ he says. ‘Why is that? What have you got to hide?’

  I wipe my face.

  ‘Nothing. But if you don’t get close to someone, then they can’t hurt you.’

  The sentence hangs in the air. I’m always saying stupid things.

  He tilts his head to the side.

  ‘What if I already know who he is?’

  ‘What?’ I say, feeling a panic that almost strangles me. ‘How can you know that?’

  He wavers from my gaze and shrugs.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t know his name. You get yourself to bed. I’m all right here. I need to think about what I’m going to do next. I don’t think this is the life that I wanted.’

  ‘What do you mean? You have to give yourself a chance – make something of yourself.’

  ‘But what if I’m broken? I’ve been treated like shit. Where’s the justice in that?’ He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. ‘Nothing’s fair in this world.’

  ‘You need to get some sleep,’ I say. ‘You’re not thinking straight.’

  ‘I’m thinking just fine. Goodnight.’

  I start to back out of the room. The conversation has finished because he’s shut down; the barrier has built up between us. As I reach the door, in the quiet I notice that the ticking of the clock has stopped. I close the door tightly and walk to the foot of the stairs. I grab the banister post for support.