by S. E. Lynes
Jack shook his head. ‘I told her I had a school trip.’
‘What time’s she expecting you back?’
No answer. But clearly, no one knew where he was, who he was with. There were just the two of them, alone on the canalside in the falling light of a spring afternoon.
‘Look,’ Christopher said eventually. ‘You belong there. I… I don’t.’
Jack’s face reddened and his eyes watered, as if Christopher had slapped him hard. ‘Why are you saying that?’
‘Because it’s true.’
‘No it’s not. How can you say that? Your parents are the ones who look after you and feed you and bring you up.’ He stopped, his eyes widening as they had before in the road. His mouth dropped open. ‘She’s your mother, isn’t she? Phyllis? She’s not your girlfriend at all.’
Sharp and unwelcome as a flick knife in the gut, hot rage cut through Christopher. Rage for this spoilt little shit of a boy who had taken his Scalextric, taken everything from him, even his name, without asking. They were alone. If he were to sock him in his stupid jaw, he could throw him in the canal and be rid of him forever, tie him to that broken mooring so he would sink. He could…
‘It’s got nothing to do with you, you little bastard,’ he managed to say. ‘My life is here now. It’s got nothing to do with any of you. And I do visit Margaret. I’m just not some mummy’s boy who’s still playing with his toys…’
‘Christopher—’
‘… who still has his washing done for him and who still can’t wipe his own arse. I’m a man, Jackie boy – do you hear me? And I’m not a Harris, I’m a Curtiss, so leave me alone, and if you tell Mum I’ll bloody kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?’
‘Christopher!’
His hand was around Jack’s throat. His spit on Jack’s red cheek, Jack’s eyes as wide as moons. Christopher shook himself, released his brother. Jack was rubbing at his neck. His eyes were full of tears, tears that leaked and fell now onto his face. On his upper lip, the mousy down of an adolescent moustache. My God, he was just a boy.
‘Jack, I’m sorry.’ Christopher reached out, but Jack cowered, stepped backwards. ‘Be careful, you’ll end up in the drink. That water’s filthy.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Jack’s voice was ragged, his mouth the same ugly rectangle as his mother’s. ‘Why are you being like this?’
‘Nothing, I’m sorry.’ He reached for his brother again, and this time Jack let him lay a hand on his shoulder. ‘I just don’t want you telling Mum, that’s all. It’ll kill her – you must know that. I haven’t told her because she wouldn’t be able to cope with it. You’ve got to grow up and see that, Jackie. I know it’s tough, but it’s for the best. I can still visit, but I can’t be her son, not like you. Once I buy a place, you can come and stay, OK? But not now, not yet.’ He pushed Jack around to face the direction they’d come and urged him back towards the car. ‘Give me a year, all right? I’ll have my own place by then. You’ll be knocking on sixteen, won’t you? I’ll take you out, how about that? Ever been on a pub crawl?’
Beside him, Jack nodded, sniffed.
‘Agreed, then. Come on, I’ll drive you to the station, and next time you come here, we’ll get smashed. Like proper brothers.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘You’re late, mister,’ Phyllis called to him from the kitchen.
He pulled off his shoes – they were muddy from the canalside – and called back to her. ‘Sorry. I went for a walk. I’m… I’ve got to pop upstairs a moment.’ He ran upstairs, tore off his shirt and washed at the bathroom sink. The immersion heater hadn’t been on; the water was cold on his neck, under his arms. He shivered, dried himself with a musty towel and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown.
In the kitchen, Phyllis was baking. As he entered, she looked at him and screwed up her nose.
‘What?’ He bent to kiss her.
‘You’re in your pyjamas,’ she said. ‘I was thinking we’d get a takeaway as there’s only the two of us. I’m still making these bloody fairy cakes for Sunday.’
He dipped a finger into the chocolatey cake dough.
‘Oi, it’s still Lent.’ She slapped his hand playfully, but he grinned and sucked the sweet goo from his finger.
‘I don’t mind going to the Chinese.’ It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. But he had to stay normal. She knew him better than anyone in this world. If he were tense, she would see it. If he lied, she would know.
‘We can have cheese on toast. Won’t kill us, will it?’ She sighed. ‘Can’t wait to have chocolate again.’
‘I’ll buy you the biggest Easter egg I can find.’ He opened the fridge door and pulled out the half-bottle of Piat d’Or for her and a can of Greenall’s bitter for himself. The panic of the day was starting to ebb. He was under control. Billy would not come here, not now he had an appointment. Jack had returned to Morecambe, appeased by the promise of brotherly good times to come. Christopher would write to Margaret in the morning, arrange a visit for the end of term.
He sighed and poured Phyllis a drink. She reached for it without looking, as if the two of them were cogs in the same machine, ticking hands in the same perfect timepiece. He smiled at the idea. How relaxed it was here at the house with the boys and David away. With no kids to think about, he and Phyllis were like a young couple starting out on their life’s adventure. Cheese on toast, a glass of wine; later they would curl up on the sofa together and watch Top of the Pops or whatever was on. This was life. If he could only keep hold of it.
* * *
The next day, Christopher busied himself as best he could: marking, lesson plans, a long run on the hill. At six, he bathed and dressed, ate with Phyllis the spaghetti Bolognese he had prepared for them both.
‘I’m going out with Amanda later,’ he said.
‘All right, love. What time?’
‘Quarter to seven. I shouldn’t be back late.’
‘All right. If I’m in bed, lock up, eh?’
‘Of course.’
At quarter to seven, he poked his head round the living-room door. Phyllis was watching an episode of Coronation Street she had videoed.
‘I’m off then,’ he said.
‘OK, love. See you later.’
He put on his coat and shoes, went to open the door. There, he hesitated a moment before going back into the lounge.
‘Bye then.’ He rounded the edge of the sofa and bent towards her, took her head in his hands and kissed her on the cheek. He drew back and smiled. ‘I love you.’
‘And I you, silly.’ She looked into his eyes, her brow furrowed in question. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’
* * *
At two minutes to seven, he parked outside the Wilsons and went in. Billy was not there, nor was Rebecca. He ordered a pint of bitter shandy, instructing the woman at the bar to make it three-quarters lemonade, and sat down. Good Friday, the pub was already busy – men, mostly. Men like his father, Jack Harris, supping ale at the end of a hard week.
Billy appeared minutes later. Christopher stood, smiled and waved. Seeing the confusion pass across Billy’s face as he made his way over, he dug into his pocket and gestured towards the bar.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Where’s Phyllis?’
‘She’s not here. As I said, she gets anxious. She’s asked me to come and meet you. There are some things I need to tell you, but first let me get you a drink.’
Billy glanced about him before fixing Christopher with his green eyes. ‘All right. Can I have a lager please? Thanks.’
Leaving Billy to take off his jacket and settle in his seat, Christopher went to the bar and held up his hand, catching the barmaid’s attention almost immediately.
‘Hi there,’ he said, noticing this time the merest hint of a blush on the young woman’s face, the way her eyes widened a little at the sight of him. ‘Could you give me a pint of your strongest lager?’
The
woman raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. ‘That’ll be the Grolsch. It’s expensive though.’
‘That’s perfectly all right. And a shot of vodka – a double – if you will, thank you.’
He turned to check on Billy, who was talking to a bald man with a pregnant-looking beer belly. He turned back and, with a wink at the barmaid, tipped the vodka into the lager and handed over the money.
As she returned the change, she let her fingertips linger a moment on the palm of his hand. ‘Know where I am if you need me.’
He smiled, almost winked. ‘I do indeed. Thank you.’
He checked the door. Still no sign of Rebecca. It was possible she wouldn’t come. He had been naïve to think she would. He thought of the taxi money he had given her boyfriend or whoever he was. It had probably gone on a bottle of cider or an eighth of hash by now; he had been stupid to hand it over. He made his way back to Billy, excusing himself as he pushed past the bald man, who nodded at Billy and turned to rejoin his group of friends.
‘People are real friendly in England,’ Billy said. He took a long gulp of his beer and set it down. ‘Cheers. Thanks for the drink.’
He had not tasted the vodka – the strong lager had done its job.
‘Listen,’ Christopher began. ‘I know it must be a shock to you that Phyllis isn’t here. But the thing is, I need to come clean with you about some things and you’re going to have to listen until I get to the end.’
‘All right,’ Billy said. ‘Go ahead.’
Christopher pulled at his pint and set it down. Looked over towards the door and told himself to stop. If Rebecca came, she came. If not, he would still say what he had to say.
‘So. First thing is, after you left, I opened your letter and read it before I gave it to Phyllis.’
‘You had no right to do that,’ Billy interrupted. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Christopher raised his hand. ‘Yes. And I’m sorry, but as I said, you have to listen to the end.’ He met Billy’s gaze and, seeing a flicker of assent, went on. ‘Phyllis suffers with nerves. I was worried the letter would upset her. I was right. It did.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But she wrote me back.’
‘I know. She made me read her letter, to make sure it was all right. I was the one who delivered it for her. I knew something had gone wrong, you see. Because years ago I traced Phyllis through the official channels. I went through Liverpool Council, the court overseeing the adoption and the Registrar. You’ve come over with a – and I’m not criticising you at all – a whole different approach and I think, in short-cutting the process, you haven’t arrived at the correct information.’
‘So what? You’re telling me I’m wrong?’
‘Wait. Please.’
‘No, you wait a second. You’re telling me you’re not my half-brother?’
Christopher had been about to argue back, but Billy’s words stopped him dead. ‘Your half-brother? Is that what you think? No. No, I’m… Look, let me explain in full and then we’ll do questions, all right?’
Billy opened his mouth to speak but appeared to think better of it. He nodded for Christopher to continue and picked up his glass.
‘All right,’ said Christopher, his heart thumping. ‘After we realised there’d been a mistake, I agreed with Phyllis that I’d investigate further and find out what had gone wrong. She was too upset to deal with it.’
‘But I saw the mother superior…’
Christopher raised his hand. ‘Please.’
‘I’m sorry, all right, go ahead.’ Billy took another long drink of his lager.
‘I realise you went to the convent. But I went there also. It was a simple mistake. Two sets of documents in the same file. You asked for your details, she pulled out mine. And that’s it.’
‘But I have the photograph.’
‘Of yourself and a nun. Sister Lawrence, who is now the mother superior. It doesn’t prove anything, not a thing. I’m sure it’s you, but there’s nothing on that photograph to say that your mother was Phyllis. What the mother superior didn’t realise when you went there is that there were two boys born the same day. I was one; you were the other. Your mother’s name is Rebecca.’
‘But I didn’t see any documents. There was just some ledger book. I had to show her my ID.’
‘Your name is Billy Hurst. Your mother’s name is Rebecca. Rebecca Hurst.’
‘Rebecca? What? That’s not possible!’
‘Wait. It’s not bad news – it’s different news. I know you think you’ve found your mother, and I’m here to tell you that you have. But it’s not Phyllis, that’s all. Listen, I have more to say. But first let me get you another pint.’
Billy appeared to calm down. He looked at his glass as if surprised to see he had emptied it. ‘It’s my turn.’
But Christopher had already stood up. ‘No, I insist. My town, my treat. Besides, I think the barmaid likes me.’ He winked at Billy, feeling himself blush at his own fraudulence. This wasn’t him. He had borrowed Adam’s personality, it seemed, to get him through. Chutzpah: so long a mystery, and now, in extremis, he had found it after all.
He ordered the same again for Billy, and for himself another bitter shandy – this time barely a splash of bitter in the lemonade – and returned to Billy.
‘The beer’s good here,’ said Billy. ‘Tasty, and, boy, I can already feel it.’
‘I’ll take you to the chippy after,’ said Christopher, acknowledging Billy’s attempt to break the tension – a good sign surely.
‘That’s the fish and chip shop, right?’
‘Indeed.’ Christopher raised his pint and they touched their glasses together.
‘You said you have more to tell me?’ Billy said.
‘That’s right.’ Christopher checked the door. Still no one. Where was she? Bloody drug-addled waste of life, could she not turn up for her own son? What a waste of space. ‘So I traced your mother, Rebecca. I knew you were short of time and I suppose I wanted to help. That’s not true, actually, I did want to help you but you must understand that sorting out this matter is of utmost urgency for me too. I mean, I live with Phyllis in her home. I’ve been with her for four years. She and I, we have a unique bond. We are close, we are—’
‘I get it,’ Billy said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to cause trouble. But I’m going to need proof.’
‘I have proof,’ said Christopher. ‘I have all the documentation. But I have more than that. I have your mother. I traced her. I found her parents, your grandparents. And I found her.’ He stopped, drank deeply. The next bit would be more difficult. If he hadn’t wanted Rebecca, there was every reason to suspect that neither would Billy.
‘She should be here by now,’ he said.
‘Here?’
‘Yes. I told her you’d be here. But…’
‘But what?’
‘Look, she’s had a difficult life. I’m sorry to say that I found her in a bad state. She was… I think she was drunk and I suspect she’d taken something.’
‘What are you telling me? That my mother’s a drug addict?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how bad it is. But she’s not well. And I realise that must be upsetting for you to hear. Believe me, I wanted to bring you better news.’
‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ Billy leaned back in his chair. As he did so, his left eye half-closed.
Christopher stood, knocking his chair backwards.
‘Oi,’ said the man behind him, the bald man. ‘Watch what you’re doing, mate.’
‘Are you all right?’ Billy too had stood up. He was gesturing, as if to help Christopher sit back down.
‘I… I need to use the loo,’ Christopher stammered. ‘Excuse me.’ He lurched, pushed his way through the busy pub.
In the Gents, he threw open the cubicle door and bolted it behind him. He slammed down the loo seat and sat down, head in his hands. The stench of urine filled his nostrils. His breath came raggedly through his open mouth, his he
art pounding in his chest. He closed his mouth, sickened by the smell, but sat breathing like a racehorse all the same. The metallic taste of blood, the urge to vomit – he stood and retched into the bowl, but nothing came. He spat, sat down once more and put his head in his hands.
‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh God, oh God.’
Ben was not Billy. Ben was Martin. He was Phyllis’s son – it was clearer than the tiled floor at Christopher’s feet. His eye, the way he had half-closed it on hearing something peculiar or suspicious. His eye, half-closed, revealed the rest: the brown hair that fell over his brow like hers did, his father’s green eyes, Phyllis’s nose and her lopsided smile. The rest came now, flushing in – Rebecca, her sunken face, her black hair, the way she had lit up for a moment before dying back on the dilapidated sofa cushions. That face, a sunken, shrunken echo of the woman in the headscarf all those years ago. Are you Billy?
No, I am not, he had said.
But he was. As Ben was Martin, son of Phyllis, Christopher was Billy, son of Rebecca, a mother he did not want, could not have, could not could not, could never…
‘No.’ The word perspired against his hands, clamped now over his face. He was weeping. He could not remember starting to cry, but his face was wet and his throat ached. ‘I’m Billy.’ His own voice came high in his ears like someone else’s. ‘I’m Billy.’
He had known. He had always known.
And if he had seen it, then so would Phyllis. She would see in Ben her son. She would see Martin. She must not see. She must not.
The squeal of the door. The splash of someone at the urinal.
He sat up, wiped his face with his hands. Think, Christopher. This is your life in the balance. Fight for it. Ben could still be Billy because Billy was who Christopher needed him to be. Hadn’t he, Christopher, lived as Martin, Phyllis’s son, exactly because that was what he had needed? Hadn’t he been happy? Hadn’t she? You can only live a lie if you don’t know or accept the truth. He didn’t accept it. No, he did not. What harm could there possibly be in sending Ben back to the US thinking he was Billy? It would not ruin his life. It would barely alter his life, over there, so far away. No. The only life that stood to be ruined was Christopher’s own, and he had come too far to surrender that now. No. No and no. Ben could be Billy. Ben would be Billy.
