Mother

by S. E. Lynes

  When the Christmas break came around, Phyllis insisted he spend Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day with his adoptive family.

  ‘I want you here, of course I do,’ she said, stroking his hair back from his face. ‘But they raised you and it’s not right to spend it with us. You’ll hurt their feelings.’ She didn’t know at this point that neither Margaret, nor Jack, nor Jack Junior nor Louise had any idea of her existence.

  ‘All right,’ he said, for her, for the sake of all that he had to keep hidden. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘I’ve made some shortbread for you to take. And a card.’

  ‘Lovely. Thank you.’

  He went. I have no idea what happened to the shortbread and the card. They will have ended up in some rubbish bin in a service station, I should think; like so many things in his life cast aside, forgotten.

  * * *

  In January 1981, Christopher took up a placement at a secondary school in Widnes. In the late afternoons, while the twins were out playing football or watching television or doing their homework, he and Phyllis would work together at the kitchen table: she on her marking and preparation, he on his assignments. They had learned to keep an eye on the time, and fifteen minutes before David was due home, Christopher would take his work upstairs and finish it at the desk David had painted for him, while Phyllis would jump up and busy herself with the evening meal.

  What reason did either of them give for this, even to themselves?

  It was on a Sunday night in January that the announcement came. Like most momentous historical events, everyone can remember where they were when they heard. And for Christopher, that moment was at home at 6 p.m. He and Phyllis and David were sitting in the lounge with their tea on trays on their laps. It was Phyllis who had suggested they have a TV dinner, saying she wanted to catch the news. They were chatting about something or other when from the television Big Ben chimed and what followed shocked them all into silence:

  ‘A man is charged with a Ripper murder…’

  Those were the words. Not the Ripper murders, as we talk about them today, but a murder. I remember that press conference, the atmosphere of euphoria among the high-ranking police officers who had presided over the five-year waking nightmare. I can’t remember what came out during that first broadcast and what came out later, only that feeling: he’d been caught. Finally. It was over.

  A fake number plate had given him away. The police had picked him up for routine, nothing more. Saying he needed a piss, he’d tried to stash the murder weapons. He hid another one in the cistern of the toilet at Dewsbury police station. The rest had fallen into place from there.

  Confession at last. To every one.

  The report finished. Christopher collapsed against the back of the sofa.

  ‘They’ve got him,’ he said, his voice strange, strangled. ‘They’ve caught him, the monster.’ He had to put his dinner on the floor. He was panting, running his hand over his forehead. David had to go and get him a glass of water.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ Phyllis asked, rubbing his back.

  ‘Here.’ David passed him the water and he drank it down in one go.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Just so glad they got him. It’s such a relief. It’s over.’

  Over the days that followed, whether it was the television news, the radio or out on the street, the talk was of nothing else. More came out. Thirteen victims: he had killed them with a ball-peen hammer and a kitchen knife – objects that hung heavy in the mind. On the surface, he was a normal man, living in a normal house with his wife, Sonia.

  ‘It’s like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle,’ Christopher said later, once Sutcliffe had confessed in full – once we knew there’d be no going back. ‘I feel free. I don’t know how to explain it, except for that. I feel free.’

  He told me then there had been times when he thought that he might be the Yorkshire Ripper. He said he’d looked in the mirror and seen the image released by the police. I couldn’t believe he could think such a thing, although I could see the physical similarity, especially when he had the beard – I could see how he could have compared his face to the sketches released by the police. Being such a sensitive boy, I could see how such gruesome events might get under his skin and I thought that was all it was. Now, of course, I know it was more than that.

  * * *

  And this is where I have to get to, what I have been aiming towards and yet avoiding all this time: April 1981. Even now I don’t know if I can get there, but I will try.

  It was the Easter holidays. Christopher had turned twenty-two in the March. Working backwards, it must have been the Wednesday, and I know that on that day Phyllis had gone into Liverpool with her sister to buy clothes; that David had taken the twins youth-hostelling for a few days in the Lake District. I know that the plan was for David and the twins, who by then must have been twelve years old, to return on the Saturday in time for Easter Mass on the Sunday. And I know that it was Christopher who answered the door.

  I sit here now and I wonder what would have unfolded had Phyllis not gone to Liverpool but had instead stayed at home and opened the door herself. Life is series of moments, of choices, isn’t it? Every moment, every choice could have gone differently, and sometimes that doesn’t bear thinking about. Sometimes thinking about that one thing can drive a person mad – or even to suicide. No one knows that better than me. Regret, if that’s a strong enough word, is a potent force. But listen to me, sitting here pontificating. Not like I’m any great philosopher. I’m only a person – a normal person with nothing special or interesting to say. What happened that day broke Christopher’s world, broke all of our worlds, into pieces.

  What else is there to say? What, really?

  Perhaps I could add that it was a shame, such a shame, because by this time Christopher really had settled. Phyllis saw it: in the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the way his eyes opened that little bit wider these days, seemed to have lost the anticipation of hurt she had always read there, the expression that had broken her heart a thousand times over when she had first met him and made her want to say, Hey, it’s OK, nothing bad can happen now. You are safe, my love.

  Christopher was saving for a flat. He had met a nice girl, a Spanish teacher called Amanda. They’d been out a few times. Phyllis suspected they’d slept together, since Amanda stayed in digs near the college, and besides, Christopher had taken to wearing a wide smile on his face, to whistling around the house. But he hadn’t told Phyllis anything yet and hadn’t asked if Amanda could stay at the house.

  ‘No reason why she can’t,’ David had said when she spoke to him about it. ‘They’re hardly kids any more.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ Phyllis had replied, with no idea how she would justify this statement. ‘What about the twins?’ was what came to her. ‘And he’s only got a single bed.’

  As it turned out, Amanda staying was not something they would ever have to worry about.

  It was only later that Phyllis put two and two together and came to the conclusion that somehow, in some strange way, Christopher’s entry into romantic life had some connection with the arrest of the Yorkshire Ripper. The last piece of the jigsaw in place, as he put it, it was as if he could get up from the puzzle and start living in a more complete way than before. Sometimes when we think something, we have no idea how true it is, nor indeed do we realise the implication of that truth until later.

  As for Christopher, the knot in his chest had vanished. He was loved. He belonged. And he felt peace.

  And writing this now, no matter what happened after, I suppose I have to be grateful for that.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wednesday, 15 April 1981

  Ben wakes a little after midnight. Finding he can’t get back to sleep, he writes a letter to his mother. He doesn’t want to sound pushy, but he doesn’t have much time. He appeals, he hopes, to her maternal instincts. He has no intention of posting the letter; it is just a
back-up. If she’s not in, he will post it and hope she comes to find him at the hotel.

  But he’s getting ahead of himself. He needs to find her first.

  He turns off his light and tries to get some more sleep. When he wakes up, it is late morning. English time. He takes a shower, gets dressed and breakfasts in the hotel. Continental – fake orange juice that tastes like it’s made from a powder, croissants that bend but don’t flake. Yuck. He takes his time over his coffee, gets a refill. Halfway down the second cup, it occurs to him he is nervous. He is stalling.

  Back in his hotel room, he brushes his teeth and checks his appearance. Wonders if when she looks at him, she will like what she sees; whether when he looks at her he will see something of himself. Slow down, Ben. You haven’t found her yet.

  The guy at reception gives him detailed directions, draws a map on a piece of hotel stationery. Not too far, he says. About a five-, ten-minute drive.

  Ben drives back the way he came, the long, winding artery that runs through Beechwood Estate, cul-de-sacs coming off it like lungs. Keep going, keep going, the guy said. At a certain point you’ll see a golf club and then there’ll be a wide common-type thing on the left and then a crossroads up ahead.

  Ben’s beginning to think he’s gone wrong when he sees the grassy area to his left. Up ahead, traffic lights, and beyond, what looks like a park. Keep going. He goes straight on at the crossroads, down Moughland Lane. Yes, that checks out, he has that written down. When you get to the next junction, turn right and you’re there.

  He drives on. It is all so small, so British. Cute, Martha would say – she would love these red bricks, these white-framed curtained windows, these neat gardens running up to the sidewalk, ending with waist-high brick walls, hedges grown for privacy. Another field opens up to his right, what looks like a sports club or something at the far end. The junction comes up faster than he was expecting. There is a memorial of some kind on the left, and as he turns right, his chest swells in anticipation. Greenway Road. He is here.

  The road heads down the hill. He drives past the house but there is nowhere to park out front. He takes a left down a street called Balfour Road and finally finds somewhere to leave the car. By the time he has walked back to the house, his heart is beating faster. But it’s OK. He has rehearsed.

  A woman with thick white hair curled in the old-fashioned way answers the door. He scrutinises her while trying to look like he’s doing no such thing.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says and treats her to his best smile. ‘My name is Benjamin Bradbury and I’m the son of a friend of Phyllis Curtiss.’

  The woman blinks and says, ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘That’s right. My mom gave me this address. Forgive me, but are you her mother?’ When she says nothing, he continues quickly. ‘Let me explain. I live in the US, San Francisco, but my mother is from here, from Runcorn. She emigrated a long time ago but she went to school with Phyllis. I’m over here on business and Mom asked me to try and look Phyllis up. She wants to write her and find out how she is and all. Do you think you could help me?’

  She still has hold of the door edge; her eyes have narrowed. Holy shit, this could be his grandmother.

  ‘Where did you get our address, did you say?’ she says.

  ‘From my mom. I think she used to live in, let me see, is it Balfour something?’

  ‘Balfour Road?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Is that near here?’

  She nods, but he can see she’s still unsure.

  He throws up his hands. ‘Listen, if it’s a trouble to you, I’ll be on my way. But if you can tell her that Dorothy said hello. She’ll remember. I can leave her address with you if you prefer.’ He smiles again, takes a step back. ‘I appreciate your time.’

  ‘Hold on,’ the woman says. ‘Have you got a pen?’

  * * *

  He heads back the way he came, the sports field now on his left. At the junction, he heads left down the long hill of Heath Road. If he goes under a bridge, he’s gone too far apparently. He should look out for the town hall, just after the roundabout. It’s a white building, she said. With big gardens all round it and railings. After that you take the first left.

  He reaches the roundabout, sees the railings and the grounds. Everywhere is so green around here, so leafy. He reaches the left turn. Ivy Street, that’s right. He turns. On his right is the big church that she said would be there: red brick, a stone JC set in the wall, flanked by a row of portholes, arched windows below. A small green spire poking skywards like a stylus from a square tower.

  ‘Hi,’ he rehearses into the rear-view mirror. ‘My name’s Benjamin Bradbury. I’m looking for Phyllis Griffiths.’

  He takes a left, into Langdale Road.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nurse came late today. I have never seen her look flustered, but today she did. Her face was pink and her hair, usually combed with flat perfection into her ponytail and shining with cleanliness, had been yanked into a bumpy knot. But it wasn’t that. Nor was it the tired slope of her eyes or the crackle of thread veins in her cheeks. It was the set of her mouth. She had clamped it into a smile, wide and closed like a frog’s, and while every day of my stay here so far she had looked me steadfastly in the eye – and God knows this must have been a challenge – today she looked at the floor.

  She handed me my dish of pills.

  ‘And how are you this morning, my darling?’ she asked me as she does every day, knowing that I will not answer.

  And it struck me that this flat smile of hers was a smile of pain. And that here she was, uniform on and hair pulled back, asking me how I felt. How I felt. The plant that blooms no matter how many times it is cut down, and still the weed sits there trying to poison it. I wondered what in her life had cut her down. I wondered if she’d tell me as we walked around the yard, and if she was silent, whether I would find the words to ask her what was wrong.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said. No more than a croak.

  Her eyes widened; her eyebrows shot into her brow.

  ‘Are you now?’ she said. ‘Well that’s grand.’

  I gestured for the water. She held it out to me. I took my pills and sipped.

  ‘Nurse.’ Throat still scratchy, I coughed. Gently I reached for her wrist and held it. I met her eye. ‘What’s your name?’

  Slowly she took the paper cup from me. ‘It’s Betsy.’

  ‘Betsy,’ I repeated, the name giving me the woman, giving me my voice. ‘You have been very kind to me. Thank you.’

  * * *

  But now, there’s no more going round the houses. That Wednesday, it was Christopher, not Phyllis, who opened the door. It was Christopher who found himself face to face with a man on the doorstep, a man he thought he recognised from somewhere. A man with brown shoulder-length hair pushed back from his face, a lopsided smile and inquisitive dark green eyes.

  ‘Hi there.’ His accent was American, which came as a shock. ‘My name’s Benjamin Bradbury. Ben. Pleased to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand and smiled as if a handshake was non-negotiable – as if in his world rejection was not and never had been a possibility. His green eyes creased at the edges, his pale cream teeth were even and strong. His trousers were pale cream too, as if to match, and his shoes were brown, highly polished leather. He looked American as well as sounding it, Christopher thought, leaning forward to shake the man’s hand.

  ‘Christopher,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Phyllis Curtiss… actually, what am I talking about, her name is Griffiths now, I believe, excuse me. Curtiss is her maiden name.’ His voice rose at the end of each sentence, as if he were asking a series of questions. But they were not questions.

  ‘Phyllis?’

  ‘Phyllis Griffiths. She lives here, I believe.’

  ‘Curtiss,’ said Christopher. The word blocked his throat. He coughed – coughed again. ‘I mean Griffiths. No. I mean she used to but she – she moved. Away.’

  Ben op
ened up the piece of paper in his hands. ‘That’s strange. Actually, I’ve just come from her parents’ home over on Greenway Road, and they said she lived here. Is there another Langdale Road around these parts? Maybe I’m mistaken.’

  The pulse in Christopher’s forehead throbbed so hard he felt sure this man, Ben, would see it: a raised purpled vein, a blood beat fit to burst. Instinctively he put up his hand to hide it. ‘No. Yes. She does live here but she doesn’t like visitors. That’s why I answer the door, you see. She doesn’t like people coming to the house. She gets… she gets nervous. She’s a very nervous person. Can I ask what it’s in connection with?’

  Ben looked down at his shiny shoes, but from the set of his brow Christopher could see he was still smiling. ‘Actually, it’s kinda personal. It’s real important I get to see her.’ He looked up and fixed Christopher with his unflinching green gaze, his wide cream teeth.

  ‘I would recommend you drop her a line,’ were the words that left Christopher’s mouth. ‘If you like, you could give me a letter and I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  ‘Ah, gee.’ Ben looked behind him, into the road, and back again at Christopher. ‘Thing is, I have to fly back to the States in a few days and it’s real urgent.’

  ‘I’m sure if you write something now she will get it tonight,’ Christopher insisted. ‘In fact I’ll make sure she gets it. I give you my word.’

  Ben looked beyond Christopher, into the hall. ‘Is there any way I could wait? It’s real important I see her.’

  Christopher’s chest began to burn. He widened his stance so as to fill the doorway. This chap was small in build, smaller than Christopher, but he still took up plenty of space. There was something about him, polite as he was. His American-ness perhaps. The Americans were a pushy lot.