Mother

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘I think Christopher looks like Jesus,’ Craig said, his voice full of apology and hope.

  When they got back to the cottage, Christopher went straight to the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. He had seen the artists’ sketches of the Ripper on the news, sketches that his mind now overlaid onto his reflection. Darren had a point. With his black beard and hair, he did look a little like those pictures – that is, like him. He leaned into the mirror and met his own dark eyes. The hint of blood in the whites, the flecked and deepening brown of the irises, the pupils, dilating now a little, black and unending as an abyss. Were they the eyes of a man? Or a monster?

  * * *

  Later, Christopher helped Phyllis to prepare a cottage pie while David and the twins watched the football. She told him about her work, about the other teachers at the comprehensive school; he spoke mainly about Adam, who was now onto his third girlfriend.

  ‘This one’s called Lorraine,’ he said, peeling the last strip of skin from a potato and plunging it into cold water. ‘But she’s not the only one he has on the go. There’s Alison, who finished with him but I think he still sees her from time to time. And Sophie, who…’ He stopped. Sophie, Adam had said, was just a sex thing, whatever that meant. ‘I don’t know how… well actually I do. He’s not bad looking but he’s not a film star or anything. It’s more that he always seems to know what to say.’ He picked up another potato and began to peel it. ‘He calls it chutzpah. It seems to mean not taking no for an answer – at least he doesn’t. He simply goes up and talks to them, and then if he gets no response or the wrong response he has this ability to brush it off and move on. It doesn’t bother him. Rejection doesn’t bother him.’ His voice carried an edge. He fell silent.

  When after a moment his mother didn’t reply, he looked up, worried for a moment that he’d said the wrong thing. She was looking at him very directly, her expression sad.

  He set down the potato and the peeler. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. What have I said?’

  She shook her head and smiled, but even her smile was sad. ‘You sound jealous, my love. I know you’re not, not really, and you mustn’t be. You’re worth ten of Adam. Honestly, I wish you could see how handsome you are, Chris. Look at you. You’re perfect.’

  Christopher felt himself blush but said nothing.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ she went on, quite, quite serious. ‘Any girl would be lucky to have you, don’t you forget that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Well I do. And I’m a girl, aren’t I? And I can tell you with some authority that lots of women like quiet men. God knows there are enough gasbags in this world. There’ll be someone out there, someone who really, really, truly gets who you are and who loves you for it. I wonder if Adam will ever have that. You maybe need to realise that it’s better to have one person you truly connect with than a thousand girlfriends.’

  He thought of Angie. He didn’t think what had happened between them could be called connection exactly. More like a short circuit.

  ‘I did have a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘But it didn’t work out. What I mean is, I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s like anything else, love. Takes practice. And that person, that girl I’m telling you about, she will understand that because she will understand you.’

  ‘You understand me.’ It felt like he needed all his courage to look at her.

  ‘I do.’ She took his hands in hers. ‘I love you, and so will she.’

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  David’s shadow fell across the mess of vegetable peelings. Christopher withdrew his hands from Phyllis’s, picked up a potato, which slid out of his hand and fell onto the table, then onto the floor. He jumped from his seat and retrieved it, stood to see Phyllis, also out of her chair, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘What’s this, a palm-reading?’ said David.

  ‘It’s called a heart-to-heart,’ she replied. ‘It’s what people who are in touch with their feelings do. I’m trying to give our Christopher some confidence in himself.’

  ‘What’s not to be confident about?’ David pulled two cans of lager out of the fridge and three glasses from the cupboard. ‘Good-looking lad, plenty of smarts. They must be like flies round—’

  ‘Don’t you dare, David Griffiths,’ Phyllis said, hitting him playfully on the shoulder. ‘I’ve told him he’s handsome and clever, but he’s more worried about how to chat them up, that kind of thing. You talk to him. You’re a right old gobshite, aren’t you?’ She turned to Christopher and winked.

  ‘Cheeky sod.’ David shared the beer between the three glasses. He appeared to be devoting his full attention to this simple task. Perhaps to avoid an ice-cream job. ‘You don’t need to chat up anything,’ he said, handing a glass to Phyllis and one to Christopher, though he was still looking down at the table. Christopher followed his gaze, but saw only potato peelings. ‘Questions,’ David continued. ‘That’s what women like. Questions. You need to get out there, find yourself a nice girl your own age and ask her a load of questions.’

  There was a pause. When Christopher looked up, he saw that David had raised his glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, something expectant in his face, as if he had been waiting for Christopher to look at him, to meet his eye. He turned to Phyllis, pulled her towards him and kissed her slowly on the mouth. Christopher watched, helpless, his hands clenching into fists.

  * * *

  After dinner, David suggested that he and Christopher go for a pint at the local pub. Christopher would have preferred to stay in the warm, next to Phyllis on the sofa, but David had already stood and was pulling his coat from the back of the chair, and for the second time that day, Christopher’s gut instinct told him he had to say yes. Once they were outside, however, David appeared to change his mind.

  ‘Actually, let’s just go for a walk,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough beer for one night.’

  ‘All right.’

  The air had turned chilly now that the sun had set, and Christopher pulled his coat tight around him. Together they walked in the dusk towards the beach, which was at the end of the short road, its sand spreading up onto the tarmac. An anxious feeling had overtaken him. He wondered if David was cross with him, though he could think of no reason for this. Perhaps it was because of the boys this afternoon, Darren’s clumsy mention of the Ripper, though why that would make David cross with him, he couldn’t fathom.

  He followed David to the shoreline, the soft rush of the sea like car tyres over gravel, an orange sun all but melted into the horizon. David picked up a stone and skimmed it across the water.

  ‘She’s a very special woman, your mother,’ he said.

  ‘Phyllis? I know.’

  ‘She’s kind. She’s too kind actually.’

  Christopher said nothing, but the anxiety he had felt surged inside him.

  ‘It’s great that you’ve found her,’ David went on after a moment, bending to pick up more stones to throw into the sea. ‘And I can see that you’ve become close.’

  ‘Close,’ Christopher said. ‘Yes.’

  David stopped skimming stones and threw his arm around Christopher’s shoulders. With the other hand he grasped Christopher’s waterproof where the hood met the body. There was nowhere to look but into David’s eyes, which were strange and blackish in the fallen light.

  ‘She loves, does Phyllis,’ he said, his voice thick. ‘She’s a very loving person. She makes people feel special.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I met her, I knew from the word go I was going to ask her to marry me, did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well I did. I knew I’d never find anyone else like her. She’s my absolute world.’ He looked out towards the sea but kept hold of Christopher’s jacket. ‘She is my world,’ he repeated, turning back to him, those eyes again like nails. ‘You understand that, don’t you?’

  Christopher nodded, fear in his ches
t and throat like fire.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  David held on for a few more seconds before patting Christopher on the chest as if to flatten it.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good man.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Seeing no sign of Adam, Christopher made his way along to the Skyrack for a pint. David had given him a lift back after the holiday and he needed to stretch his legs after the stultifying hours in the car listening to Queen and to David, who had sung along pretty much the whole way.

  The Skyrack was packed. He hadn’t expected it to be so full on a Sunday, but, he supposed, everyone would be back from their Easter holidays and keen to get back into student life. Seeing no space to stand without feeling self-conscious, he stayed at the bar and lit a cigarette. When Adam had first given him a Players No. 6, Christopher had coughed so much he was almost sick. Now he loved to smoke. It solved all the problems of what to do with his hands.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’

  With a pang, he recognised Angie’s voice, and when he turned, sure enough, she was standing behind him. Unsure whether to shake her hand or kiss her cheek, he did neither.

  ‘Angie,’ he said. ‘I… Hello.’

  She didn’t have her glasses on. Her eyelids looked heavy, with booze perhaps, but her eyes had not lost their mischievous, mocking stare. Her plucked brows were raised, adding to her overall ironic expression. To his annoyance, he felt the heat of a blush creep up his neck.

  ‘Haven’t seen you all year,’ she said, cocking her head and smiling in the way he had not forgotten. ‘October, wasn’t it? And here we are about to go into the last term.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘So I see. Buying clothes. The beard. You look different.’

  He took a drag on his cigarette, a slug of Tetley’s. ‘Different in a good way?’

  ‘Yeah. You don’t look quite so much like your mum dressed you.’

  He stared at her a moment, unsure, but then she smiled and he smiled too. She was only pulling his leg.

  ‘Adam dresses me now,’ he said.

  She threw back her head and laughed. He had meant it as a joke, yes, but he hadn’t thought it was quite so funny.

  ‘Oh, Christopher,’ she said, and sighed before fixing him again with her mocking eyes. She leant towards him and looked up through her eyelashes. ‘Between you and me, I think Adam likes telling people what to do. Dangerous charm, that one. Still, Alison’s over it now.’ She motioned to a group of people – women, actually, about eight or so. Christopher recognised Alison and also Sophie Hampton-Something-or-other, Adam’s so-called sex squeeze. He had a date with her the following evening; Christopher remembered him talking about it just before the holidays. He wondered if Alison knew about Sophie and vice versa; wondered just how many women Adam had slept with already, how many he was sleeping with at the present time. It hardly seemed fair.

  ‘That’s our collective,’ Angie was saying. ‘Safety in numbers and all that. Anyone who fancies a drink just has to wait in the foyer at eight.’

  ‘So you all walk together?’ He winced. State the obvious, why don’t you, Christopher.

  ‘That’s the idea, although Sophie’s a bit of a one for going off on her own, silly cow. It’s really going home alone after dark you have to watch. It’s not great coming in a big group, but it’s better than being a prisoner.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘Listen, can I buy you a drink? I mean, is that allowed?’

  ‘You’re so funny.’ She did not mean amusing, that much was clear, though she spoke, he thought, with affection. She met his eye and raised her eyebrows, and again he had the impression she was drawing him into a conspiracy of sorts, or a trap. She was pretty, very pretty actually, not unlike Phyllis in her colouring and in the indescribable lightness she had about her. ‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘as it’s you.’

  He bought two pints of Tetley’s and brought them back to where Angie waited for him. She had lit a cigarette and offered him one, which he took, to be polite. They talked about how their first years were going so far, about their Easter holidays. Christopher remembered David’s advice and asked as many questions as he could, sometimes thinking so hard of the next question that he forgot to listen to the answer. Angie had been home in Blackpool for the whole of Easter but had come back that morning. She made no mention of the disaster that had occurred between them, and he remembered the way she had pocketed her glasses and pressed her warm hand to his face.

  ‘So the streets are no safer but you women have found a way,’ he said, but the words sounded clumsy even as he said them, maybe because he knew where he was leading to – trying to lead to, at least.

  She shook her head. ‘I wish they’d hurry up and catch him. We’re terrified, all of us. Alison’s not sleeping. That one in January…’

  ‘It’s a terrible business all right. And the police don’t seem to be any nearer.’

  She met his gaze and shook her head. ‘They seem to be chasing leads, but they’re all dead ends.’

  ‘Angie,’ he said, his heart thudding in his chest. ‘I know you have your group, but I wondered if you’d let me walk you home?’ He pulled out his jacket and showed her the lining. ‘I’m unarmed, as you can see. But I suppose you’re organised with the others… forget I asked.’

  ‘I’d love you to,’ she said. ‘You’re all right, you see. I know you – you’re safe. Hold on there while I let the girls know. God knows, there’s enough of them.’

  He watched her wander over to the group. From a distance, it looked as though they were angry with her. Alison glanced over and appeared to scrutinise him for a moment before her face relaxed. She had recognised him, apparently, and gave him a wave. Unsure of how to respond, he crossed the bar to say hello. He thought that might be the normal thing to do under the circumstances but was not sure.

  ‘This is Christopher,’ said Angie. ‘He’s trustworthy. He’s walked me home before.’

  ‘You’re Adam’s room-mate, aren’t you?’ It was Sophie who had spoken, through a cloud of smoke. She sounded like an actress or a princess or something. She was blonde, which he had not expected, with pale blue eyes. He had imagined her with black hair for some reason, and red-painted lips.

  ‘I am, yes.’ He tried to smile, felt like he should apologise or something, but she was still staring at him, her eyelids low, her head tilted back a little.

  ‘He didn’t say you were so good-looking,’ she said.

  ‘I… ah…’

  She threw her gaze to Angie. ‘Lucky, lucky lady, Angie.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Angie, taking Christopher’s arm and rolling her eyes at Sophie. ‘Don’t let her intimidate you. She eats men for breakfast, lunch and dinner, that one.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘Don’t forget supper, darling. Especially supper. Goodbye.’ She waved with only the tips of her fingers. ‘Goodbye, Christopher, darling.’

  It was a relief to turn away and follow Angie out of the pub. He would walk her right up to the door of her halls, he decided, and give her a friendly hug. It would be an investment.

  ‘They were not happy,’ Angie said as they stepped outside. ‘But I told them you could be trusted.’

  ‘I’m harmless,’ he said, and smiled. ‘No victims so far, at least.’

  As they walked up the Otley Road, their fingers brushed against one another’s once, twice, and on the third time, he took her hand. She did not refuse him. Now that they were walking, he found it easier to talk to her, and he told her about his holiday, about going cockling with the twins on the sands at Newborough Beach.

  ‘You have to wiggle your toes about in the soft muddy part by the sea,’ he said, delighting in her groans of disgust. ‘And when you feel something sharp or hard, you reach in, and if you’re lucky, that’s a cockle.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ she said. ‘So these are your brothers?’

  ‘My dad and my twin brothers. They’re terrors, those boy
s. They’re good kids though. We’re a very close family. They’re my world.’

  ‘Aw,’ she said. ‘You are sweet.’

  Angie suggested they go the back way this time, turning right at the Three Horseshoes and heading up Weetwood Lane.

  ‘It’s quicker this way,’ she said. ‘But a lot quieter. It leads all the way to the back of Oxley. I wouldn’t have trusted you this way last time.’

  The shops dwindled, became houses. After fifteen minutes or so, they reached a sandstone wall on the right, the woodland beyond made spooky by the dark. They crossed the road and headed up a lane. He recognised the sports fields, this time to their right.

  ‘Gosh,’ he said. ‘We’re here already.’

  They had walked a hundred yards or so when Angie stopped.

  ‘We could stop here for a moment,’ she said, nodding towards a sandstone ginnel to her left. She let go of his hand and went a little way in, the darkness all but swallowing her. He followed, making for her dark outline against the blackened bricks. She took hold of his hand once more and pulled him towards her.

  ‘No one can see us here,’ she said.

  His insides flipped. He could barely make out her features, the whites of her eyes, her teeth. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him, why she would want him, she who could surely choose whomever she wanted. He heard Phyllis, a few days ago in the holiday cottage: I wish you could see how handsome you are… Any girl would be lucky to have you. He breathed in deeply, tried to somehow make the words part of him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Angie asked.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  From somewhere, he couldn’t tell where, cries and laughter carried on the air, the screeches of female students in a protective drunken pack. A second later, a group passed the end of the ginnel, an amorphous mass of limbs in the dark.

  In breathless silence they waited, he and Angie, in their hideaway. The noise receded. The air stilled.