A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  It’s still pitch-black outside but I know I won’t get back to sleep now. So I lie back against the lumpy pillow, close my eyes and allow myself to think about him. It’s purgatory of course. But addictive purgatory.

  Time has taken its toll and I can’t remember Charlie as a living, moving human being anymore. I can’t remember his smell or the feel of his touch against my skin. But I have preserved images of him, like a pack of camera stills. I see him in his highchair with mashed banana sticking to his rosy cheeks. I see him experimenting with sand and water, all mucky fingers and serious expression. I see him horizontal on the sofa with one thumb in his mouth and the other clutching his chewed cloth rabbit, spellbound by Teletubbies or Peppa Pig.

  But suddenly I see him petrified. And I want to be sick all over again.

  I get out of bed and head for the shower. I am almost glad for the freezing cold water now, hitting me like sharp needles. But as my body temperature drops, my mind calms. He’s my son, whatever mistakes I’ve made. My flesh and blood. They say time heals, but not for me.

  I start getting dressed, while mentally running through my plans for the day. I’ll try Hollybrook Academy, I decide. I know it’s not exactly a scientific approach – eyeballing every 17-year-old in the borough – but I have to do something. In a few months’ time he’ll turn 18, and I hope he will come looking for me. But I refuse to rely on that. I can’t just sit by and leave it to fate.

  Most importantly, I hope that he’s still in Wandsworth. I learned a lot about adoption during those dark days. Not through my own research – I wasn’t capable of concentrating on anything much back then – but through the solicitor that the family court assigned me. She was young and earnest and desperate to please. Looking back, I should have been more grateful, but I was too lost in my own grief for that.

  However, she did explain – slowly, kindly – that the local authority always tries to help its own list of prospective adoptive parents first, so they would place Charlie locally if they could. Remembering his crinkly nose and solemn, innocent eyes, I can’t believe any childless couple could turn down such an adorable 3-year-old, so he must have stayed in Wandsworth.

  I have had letters from his adoptive parents, twice a year, ever since it became official – always exactly six months apart, as fixed by the Family Court. Knowing that I would keep that connection with Charlie was the only thing that got me through the adoption process. Of course, I didn’t realise then how distancing the letters would be. How unrevealing a page of writing about a boy doing well at school, having friends, enjoying sport could be. All I’ve really got are the memories.

  Discounting the all-girl schools, there are eleven secondary schools in Wandsworth that Charlie could be a student at, and I’ve been to five so far. He’ll be in upper sixth, or Year 13 as they call it nowadays, and I’ve come to realise what a relief that is. It’s almost impossible to distinguish one teenager from another when they’re all wearing the same uniform and moving around in packs, but sixth formers wear their own clothes, which makes things easier. There are moments when I question whether I’d recognise him after all this time, but it doesn’t take long to silence those doubts.

  For the last couple of days I’ve stood outside Rushton School in Putney with no luck. But today could be different. I have to believe that.

  I’m working out which of my jumpers is the thickest – the cold shower has left me desperate for warmth – when I hear a knock on the front door. There’s a frustration to their rap, which I realise is probably the result of them trying the broken doorbell first, so I towel-dry my mess of curls into a half-civilised style and race down the stairs. There’s no way either of my parents will be raising themselves this early in the morning.

  I open the door to a middle-aged woman in ill-fitting jeans and an anorak, standing on my parents’ broken paving slabs.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

  ‘Hello, Phoebe.’

  Her directness knocks me off guard and I take an involuntary step backwards, which unfortunately she treats as an invite. Before I can do anything to stop her, she pushes open the door and steps inside.

  ‘I wonder if we can have a chat?’

  The patronising tone, the tilt of her head; I can almost smell social work on her. I want to refuse, to just slam the door in her face and pretend this never happened. But I know that kind of behaviour will bring its own repercussions, so I surrender to the inevitable and stand aside.

  For a woman who wears no make-up and keeps her mousy hair sensibly short, she has a surprising air of authority, and I feel more like the visitor than the host as she walks purposefully down the hallway.

  ‘In here?’ she asks, inclining her head towards the living room.

  I nod and watch as she scans the room before choosing to perch on the edge of Paul’s prized leather Chesterfield, which is cracked and dulled now of course.

  ‘We never met back in 2005,’ she starts. ‘I know that Taisha was your social worker through it all.’

  My heart starts thudding faster as she pauses; I know what she’s about to say.

  ‘I’m Clare Morris. I was Charlie’s social worker.’

  The woman who took my son away. A massive shot of adrenaline surges through me, and I struggle not to act on it. My hands ball into tight fists and my breathing gets shallower. Shit. I can’t do this. I think about why I’m back, how I will find him, and it gives me the strength to find my voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard that you were back.’

  ‘From who?’

  She ignores my question. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to drop by, see how you’re settling in, now you’re living locally again.’

  ‘From who?’ I repeat. My tone is more assertive now and it works because, after a moment of indecision, her shoulders droop a little. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

  ‘I was chatting to your mum; she mentioned that you’d moved in.’

  ‘Flora?’ I ask, surprise knocking me off guard.

  ‘We’ve kept in touch over the years.’ She says it as though it’s obvious they would be friends. Perhaps it is. In many ways they were on the same side back then. ‘I give her a ring every now and again; she didn’t have the professional support that you got, remember.’

  I stare at the social worker expectantly; I still don’t know why she’s come.

  ‘She says you spend every day out of the house.’

  ‘I’ve been job hunting,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes, she said that too.’ Her words hang heavy with disbelief. She’s clearly less naive than Flora; less drunk too, of course. ‘Look, I just want to make sure …’ she pauses for a moment and I enjoy her discomfort as she struggles for the right words ‘… that you’re not being distracted by the past.’

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. ‘So this is a threat, is it?’ I ask. ‘Forget about Charlie, or else?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ She speeds up her words as though suddenly desperate to get it over with. ‘Look, I’m not here to run you out of town or dredge up the past. I know that you’ve suffered. But my responsibility isn’t to you.’

  ‘He’ll be 18 soon,’ I throw back. ‘He won’t be your responsibility then.’ I don’t add that I’m counting the days until his birthday, spending every minute wondering if he’ll come looking for me. Dreaming about that knock on the door.

  ‘Officially, Charlie hasn’t been my responsibility since 2007. His care was signed over when he was adopted. But that doesn’t mean I stopped thinking about him. He was a lovely kid, is a lovely kid,’ she corrects herself. ‘And I don’t want to see him hurt again.’

  ‘And you think I’ll hurt him?’ I’m spitting my words out now.

  ‘I know how much you loved him, and I’m sure you still do. But the Charlie you remember doesn’t exist anymore. He’s got a new name and a new family.’ She pauses again, and I realise I’m holding my breath. ‘Phoebe, he doesn’t know anything about
you.’

  Her words burn into me, scalding my eyes. They also don’t make sense. ‘But I wrote to him twice a year,’ I remind her. ‘Via the council. They encouraged it, for his Life Story project.’

  ‘Look, Charlie was very quiet when he was first adopted, withdrawn. He was clearly very traumatised—’

  ‘And?’ I interrupt, even though I don’t want to hear the rest.

  ‘Normally we suggest adopted children should know about their past, keep that connection to their birth parents, but Charlie’s wasn’t a normal case. His adoptive parents decided it would be best to make a clean break. Give him a completely fresh start.’

  ‘My letters?’ I repeat, like a broken toy. ‘And the photos I gave Taisha?’ I can sense her trying to make eye contact with me, so I turn to face the window.

  Eventually she sighs. ‘Phoebe, you know that his parents aren’t legally obliged to give Charlie those items until he’s 18.’

  Perhaps I do know that. It registers somewhere in the back of my mind. But that’s not what I’ve been dreaming about all these years. I’ve imagined Charlie waiting by the front door, eagerly ripping open the envelope, devouring my words. Not my letters being shoved to the back of some unused drawer by his new parents. Maybe they didn’t even keep them. Now I see them ripped in half, thrown into the bin alongside cracked eggshells and soggy teabags. I shake that thought away. It’s their legal duty to keep them until he’s an adult; I only have another three months to wait.

  ‘Do you have children?’ I ask, sensing the answer will be no.

  ‘I work with children every day. And I’ve been trained to always put their needs first. As a social worker, the paramountcy principle rules everything. But isn’t that also the job of parents? To put the needs of their child before their own?’

  ‘To you, needs are surface-deep.’ My voice rises in anger. ‘A warm bed, clean clothes, GCSEs and family camping trips. But needs run deeper than that. My own mother has let me down countless times – is still letting me down,’ I add pointedly. ‘But we have a bond. You can’t play God just because a parent doesn’t fit your idea of what makes the perfect family.’

  I watch Clare dip her head towards the floor, before raising her eyes up, shining with a new resolve. ‘You were angry back then, broken; I know that. You’d lost someone very special. But just think about how much Charlie suffered. Doesn’t he deserve some distance from that?’

  My eyes smart with tears; acid forms in my mouth. How dare she say these things? I’m his mother. But I can’t speak, I can’t even move. The silence hangs between us for a moment before she continues.

  ‘Leave him alone, Phoebe. You lost your maternal rights to him a long time ago.’ She stands up but doesn’t move any further; she’s not finished. ‘And don’t forget, it’s against the law to approach him. He may be turning 18 soon, but his right to anonymity from you is permanent.’

  I watch her zip up her anorak, hover over me. Hairs prickle on my neck.

  ‘And, Phoebe, you need to prepare yourself for him never coming to look for you.’

  I want to shout and scream at her, to slap that patronising expression off her face. ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to his adoptive parents. Phoebe, he has absolutely no memory of you.’ And with that, she disappears into the hallway, and out of my parents’ front door with a thud and a clatter.

  *

  I sit perfectly still and process her parting words. I think about my memories of Charlie. How I’ve nurtured and preserved them over the years. The effort it has taken to carry him with me. Perhaps it is too much to ask for him to have done the same. He hadn’t even turned four when I was forced to give him up.

  The Life Story project had been my glimmer of hope. I remember that earnest young woman explaining it to me, how Charlie would be given some mementos – like family photos – to remember Dan and me by. How I could write to him twice a year. I didn’t mention Dan’s death in my letters, or everything that came after. Those details I wanted to explain softly, gently, in person. But I told him how much better I was feeling, and how much I hoped that we’d see each other again one day. I never thought he might not read them. Or that his adoptive parents would make sure I was wiped from his memory.

  Suddenly desperate for fresh air, I grab my jacket off the broken peg in the hallway and head outside, into the park opposite my parents’ house. Park is an exaggeration, more a postage stamp of green space plus two swings, a slide and a rusty roundabout. But it has a kind of urban peace about it that I like. I sink onto the metal bench, its unforgiving bars digging into my back.

  I replay the social worker’s words. Doesn’t he deserve some distance from that? A speck of doubt starts to worm its way into my thoughts. Could she be right? Is our relationship beyond repair? But I shake the feeling away. No, I’ve waited so long for this chance; I’m his mother, and I’m not walking away now. And if his adoptive parents have kept me from him, severed our bond, then it’s even more important that I find him. I take a deep breath and stand up. I’m fed up of being controlled by other people. It’s my turn now.

  After nothing but gin, tonic and a grab bag of McCoy’s crinkle cut crisps for dinner, I realise I’m starving. I should go back to the house, make myself something nutritious, but I can’t face going back inside. My mission feels more urgent now. So instead, I stop at the first café on my route and order a fried egg bap and takeaway tea. At the last minute I ask her to add bacon, and the taste of that sizzling fat is worth every extra penny.

  It takes me an hour to reach Hollybrook Academy, a small school on the edge of Wandsworth Common. Everything is quiet when I arrive, so I find a wall to lean against and try to blend into the background. I feel a quiver of excitement in my belly. Like I’ve found Charlie’s school. Like today is going to be when I see my son for the first time in fourteen years. I check myself. This is exactly how I felt yesterday morning and look how that day turned out.

  The waiting gives me time to think about what Charlie might look like now. The last time I saw him his hair was a deep brown colour, the same shade as my own before the speckles of grey appeared. He has my eyes too – mid-blue with indigo flecks. But he’s Dan from the nose down. Slight hook, with a solid square jawline. Handsome. Height-wise, I imagine him to be about six foot. He was three foot exactly when I measured him at 2 years old, and I remember the old wives’ tale about your full height being double that. And with parents the shape of Dan and me, he’s unlikely to be picked for the rugby forward pack any time soon.

  Suddenly the bell goes and a few seconds later the noise hits me. A few hundred children emerge from a maze of different doorways, chatting and barging their way into the playground, seemingly undaunted by the wall of blazers obstructing their path. It must be break time. Somehow the sea of blue uniform shifts and settles. Some younger students start kicking a football in one corner; others cluster around illicit phones.

  That’s when I notice a group of taller, lankier boys materialising from a separate building. This is good. They’re definitely sixth formers and they’re loping so slowly I can easily make out their faces. I look at each boy, searching for some familiar features. Nothing jumps out. Is it the wrong school? The wrong crowd? Or is there a chance I don’t recognise him anymore?

  ‘Can I help you?’ a voice asks, local accent.

  ‘No thanks,’ I respond without turning around. The boys will be back inside soon and I can’t miss this opportunity.

  ‘A parent?’ it continues, still friendly, but with a slight edge this time. I realise I need to tread carefully.

  ‘Prospective parent.’ I turn to face the man in uniform and force a smile.

  ‘That so?’ The security guard doesn’t believe me. Perhaps I look too old.

  ‘Sixth form,’ I respond, in a higher pitch than I planned. ‘My son is at Rushton School at the moment. I’m thinking of moving him.’

  ‘Right, well Hollybrook is a great school. Takes security very seriously
too,’ he adds with meaning. ‘See that sign over there?’ He points at a large banner attached to the school fence, advertising a sixth form open evening in a couple of weeks’ time. ‘Why don’t you come back then?’

  I pause for a moment. I so want to stay, but I know he’s moving me on. ‘Great. I’ll do that,’ I answer through gritted teeth and slowly turn away. I can’t risk being on some school watchlist, so I know I have to play along. I walk away from the school and deeper into Wandsworth Common, sensing his eyes following me until I reach the cover of the trees.

  Chapter 3

  MAY 1998

  Phoebe

  ‘Everyone’s staring at us.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of the point.’

  I feel a giggle threatening to escape, so I bury my head into Dan’s shoulder. All this pomp and ceremony seems ridiculous to me, but still, there is something intoxicating about being the centre of attention.

  ‘I’m not sure our choice of song is helping,’ he continues.

  Now laughter does erupt from my belly – which people seem to take as their cue to join us. I relax a little as our first dance gets swallowed up by more enthusiastic guests twirling and whirling around us. ‘What’s wrong with All Saints?’ I ask, feigning ignorance. ‘They’re a great band.’

  ‘Never Ever isn’t exactly romantic.’

  ‘They’ve just won two Brit awards – trust me, everyone loves this song.’

  Dan sings along with mock gravity, lines about black holes and feeling low. It fuels my laughter, but secretly I do start to wonder why I chose such ominous lyrics. ‘Stop it,’ I warn him, between the giggles.

  To my relief, he changes tack. ‘Okay, make me.’ The challenge is set and I happily oblige, leaning in to give his lips something else to focus on. I was planning for it to be a quick kiss to shut him up, but somehow I melt a little and can’t help lingering, exploring his mouth. I know every part of him so well, and yet somehow it all feels different today.

  ‘Phoebe darling, sorry to interrupt.’ An apologetic voice reaches into my consciousness and I pull away from my new husband. ‘I think we’re going to slope off now.’