by Sarah Clarke
The walls that stand either side of the bridge are about three metres high and made of London brick. Flanked on both edges by security fencing topped with anti-climb guards, the only way onto the track is directly over the wall. Ben runs his hand along the brickwork. It’s damp in the moist air, and moss has grown over the pointing. He hasn’t been here since late summer and he knows how much more dangerous it is in these wetter conditions.
He walks to the side of the wall to get a better view through the fencing. The climb up will be easy enough; the rutted brickwork offers a wide choice of holds. But then Ben will need to drop himself over the wall onto a narrow ledge. If he slips off, he’ll fall thirty metres onto the railway line.
Ben hesitates for a moment, closing his eyes and listening to the faraway calls of prison inmates. He should just go home. His parents will be in bed by now. Not asleep of course, but they won’t risk another row tonight. He pulls the straps of his rucksack tight against his shoulders. Of course he’s not going home.
Checking to make sure there are no cars close by, Ben digs his right toe into a shadowy groove and reaches his arms up, burrowing his fingertips in between the bricks. With just the dim glow of streetlamps radiating from Trinity Road, Ben must rely mainly on touch, and his memory.
He hoists himself up, fleetingly remembering his far less dangerous ascent earlier in the day, and manoeuvres himself over to the left where the light shines slightly brighter. One more push up with his legs and he reaches the top of the wall. He lets the right side of his body roll over it, his left side providing the ballast he needs to stay balanced. He lies belly down against the damp bricks.
Ben knows he must keep his body close to the wall, and every muscle taut. He’s scared, but he loves the kick that being scared gives him. Slowly, carefully, he lets his right foot scrape down the back side of the wall. As his hips follow, Ben pushes them against the bricks, holding on to the wall with all his strength. His biceps scream in protest, but he ignores the pain. His heart bangs against the surface and his breathing labours. As his left leg follows his right, his feet start searching for the ledge. Ben feels panic form at the edges of his focus. His arms can’t hold on for much longer.
Suddenly, it’s there. Under his right foot. The relief is enormous, and Ben finds himself grinning as he slowly releases his weight onto the slender ledge. He shuffles along the wall and over to the bank, where he jumps gratefully into knee-high grass. He looks down at the jacket he’s borrowed for the night and sees the mixture of dirt and moss stains smeared across the Barbour logo. Something else for his dad to be pissed off about.
But as he tumbles down the bank, his mind clears. He loves being on the railway line at night, with no one but foxes for company. His school is only a few hundred metres away, and his home not much further than that. But being thirty metres down, surrounded by metal tracks and green camouflage, feels like a different world. The wall Ben is looking for is just a short walk up from the bridge. When he arrives, he pauses a moment to check his previous work – Ben is by far his own biggest critic – and then, satisfied, unzips his bag.
Ben is particular about his paints. He travels to the London Graphic Centre in Covent Garden to find the exact brand he likes. And he’s choosy about colours too. He likes them fiery and loud. Oranges and deep yellows. Gaslight blue. So alien to him really, but maybe that’s the point. His tag is pure black though, the hardest colour to remove.
Ben shakes a can of paint and aims it at the wall. He’s already sketched the idea in his black book, which he keeps locked in the case under his bed alongside his uglier, more shameful pictures, so he knows what he needs to do. As the spray floats onto the concrete building, his shoulders start to relax. This is his favourite drug. Better than smoking or craft lager. The sound and the smell of the airborne paint, the mix of destruction and creation, and the covert language only other taggers will understand.
*
Two hours later, the first stage of Ben’s design is finished. The writing is there; he’ll come back another night to add the symbols that he’s planned. He’s prouder of his graffiti than he is of the painting that won him his award. Not because it is technically better – he knows the limitations of tagging – but because it’s always harder fought. One day he’ll get even braver, tag a heaven spot and really ramp his reputation up. It might not be as sensible as an A level, but at least it’s something he’ll do off his own back, for himself.
Calm, satisfied and dog-tired, Ben decides to take an easier route off the railway line half a kilometre up the track. It’s a longer walk home, and he’s supposed to be up in four hours’ time, but he enjoys the peacefulness of the empty streets. He will apologise to his dad in the morning. They will make up. And an uneasy truce will hold for a while. Hopefully that will give Ben enough time to put out the fire burning behind his eyes.
Chapter 8
Phoebe
Finally darkness has started to lift. Physically I’m exhausted; between Flora’s snoring and my own stomach churning, I’ve hardly slept. But my mind is doing somersaults. At last, after fourteen long years, I’m going to see my son again. Will he recognise me? Should I even give him the opportunity? I don’t have a plan beyond standing outside the school gates, but hopefully the rest will come to me once I see him.
As I slip out of bed, trying not to disturb Flora, I catch my reflection in the mirror attached to her dressing table. At 47, I should be pleased that there’s no sign of wrinkles, and that my body hasn’t sagged or swollen. Especially after what I’ve lived through. But my lack of ageing hides an uncomfortable truth: that the shell I’ve built around myself is so brittle that one day it could shatter completely.
I wander over and sink down onto the velvet stool. I have so many memories of Flora sitting here, absorbed in the serious task of make-up application, oblivious to the unkempt urchin staring from the doorway. I feel like an imposter now, sat on her makeshift throne.
To distract myself, I start opening the drawers underneath the dressing table. The left drawer is full of jewellery. Tarnished chains so knotted together that they look more like a piece of dirty industrial mesh. All manner of pendants are buried inside, as well as an array of brooches, rings and garish costume jewellery. I close the drawer untouched.
The large middle drawer is dedicated to Flora’s make-up. As I handle the different bottles, cases, brushes and lipsticks, I realise that I can track Flora’s decline through these products. Older Chanel and Dior products sit at the back, foundation that’s hardened and cracked, and eye shadow that has turned from powder to a solid block with a film of fingertip grease. The front of the drawer is different; a mixture of Boots No. 7 and Superdrug own-brand products.
I look back at my reflection and wonder. I was never a heavy make-up user but I had my routine, like most other women. A little contour cream to smudge out the imperfections. A mix of light and dark eye shadow, grey pencil and black mascara to give my blue eyes some definition. Except on the few occasions when other people convinced me it would help, I haven’t worn make-up since I left home that evening. But today is different; I finally have a reason to look my best again.
Flora groans slightly in the bed behind me as I pick up her primer, squeeze a nugget out onto my index finger and smooth it across my face. My features seem to soften so I keep going, using every product I recognise from Flora’s more recent stash, and a few I don’t. When I’m finally finished, I sit back and observe my handiwork. It’s incredible really. The internal scars I carry have completely disappeared from my face. I can even see remnants of the old me. And if I’m going to meet Charlie today, this is the Phoebe I want him to see.
As I swivel to get off the small cushioned stool, I notice a dog-eared corner of paper sticking out of the right-hand drawer. I turn back and pull it open, releasing a flood of handwritten notes. I recognise them instantly. I don’t know where the urge to write to Flora first came from, perhaps the therapy sparked something, but I made it part of my routi
ne, a habit I never gave up in all that time. My parents wrote to me too, but their letters were always signed off with both their names, and as they were written in Paul’s looping script, I was never sure how much input Flora had. With a stab of fondness, I look back at her. She’s sleeping silently now, looking beautiful if it wasn’t for the tell-tale signs of the previous night still speckled through her tangled hair.
As I return the letters, in a neater pile than I found them, I notice a different style of note towards the back of the drawer. With my heart rate increasing, I pull it out and unfold the dried-out paper. There’s a short message scribbled on one side.
Charlie drew this in his session today. It’s small steps, but he loves art therapy and I remain optimistic, so please don’t worry about him. Regards, Clare Morris 16.11.05
With tears welling in my eyes, I turn the paper over, and take in the picture. A boy with brown hair and blue eyes is standing on a yellow beach, with a bright sun shining down on him. But the sea is scrawled in red, and two black dots peer out from the waves. I hold my breath and, with shaking fingers, slam the note back inside the drawer.
The noise filters into Flora’s conscious and I turn to watch her wake up, relieved for the distraction.
‘Morning, darling,’ she starts with surprising vigour. ‘You look spectacular. I’m not sure those pyjamas quite do your face justice though. What’s the occasion? Job interview?’
I nod awkwardly. At least Clare didn’t share her suspicions about my job hunting with Flora. ‘Nothing too exciting, office admin, that sort of thing.’
Luckily – predictably – she doesn’t ask for more details. ‘Well, my mouth tastes like the proverbial vermin’s nether regions, darling. Did I embarrass myself again last night?’
I weigh up my response. All I really want is for her to lay off the booze for a while. ‘If you’re feeling rubbish, why not give the gin a miss today? Give you a clear head for our day together tomorrow?’
‘Absolutely, darling. That is exactly what I’m going to do.’ We smile at each other, both happy with our own private lies.
I need to get dressed, but after making such an effort with my make-up, I don’t want to just throw on my clothes from yesterday. I cross the landing in five steps and knock gently on my bedroom door. While Flora snores in short indignant snorts, Paul’s snoring is much more rhythmical. In fact, it’s slightly hypnotic and I get lulled into it for a few moments as I listen at the door. But I’m on a schedule; I can’t miss the start of the school day. I knock louder.
A slightly flustered voice calls out. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s still early.’ I know that I’m forcing my parents up hours before they normally wake, and hope this doesn’t mean they’ll pour their first glass earlier too. While Flora’s drink problem is more obvious, I know that Paul relies on alcohol too these days. Because he only drinks red wine (full of healthy polyphenols, he tells me) and rarely starts before noon, he doesn’t view it as a problem. Just like he thinks forty cigarettes a day are good for his concentration. He hasn’t seen a doctor in twenty years though, just in case he’s forced to face the truth head on.
‘I just need to get dressed,’ I call between the cracks in the door panels. ‘I have a job interview today.’ It’s easier now; the first lie is always the hardest.
‘Congratulations, darling. Do I know the agent? Can I put in a word?’
I sigh inwardly as I hear him whip back the duvet and thud thud out of bed. ‘It’s not with an agent. Just an admin job. Just a job, really.’ The defeat in my voice is ridiculous. How can I feel embarrassed about a job that doesn’t actually exist?
‘Ah yes, of course,’ he responds, realisation hitting home; the limited job opportunities for damaged goods. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll get it, whatever it is.’
The door opens and my father gives me an awkward pat on the shoulder before scuttling off into the bathroom. Paul has never wanted to talk about what happened that night, so little gestures like this mean a lot. A smile forms on my face as I close the door behind me.
When our house in Southfields went up for sale, my parents borrowed a friend’s van and drove the four miles across Wandsworth to claim what was mine. I’m pretty sure anything of value has been sold over the years, but the clothes I didn’t take with me are still here, in bin bags piled up in the corner of the room. I haven’t opened them since I’ve been back, too scared of what they might trigger, but today, at last, I feel ready.
As I rummage through, I start to connect memories with different items of clothing. The dresses all stand for an occasion – Simon and Amanda’s wedding in Derbyshire, the premieres and opening nights that I went to with work – but it’s the everyday clothes that threaten to ruin the make-up that I’ve so painstakingly applied. The H&M skinny jeans with faded knees; my favourite FatFace hoodie, over-washed from too many run-ins with baby food or worse; the Jack Wills gilet that Charlie snuggled inside as a newborn in a baby carrier.
I pull these items out of the bin liner and slowly get dressed. The worn material feels soft against my skin, and it seems to nourish my hard shell. I run trembling fingers up and down each arm of my hoodie and feel wrapped in my memories of him, steadied by touching something tangible from our time together. I’m not sure this well-worn look was quite what I had in mind when I first opened the bag, but I’m not going to give this feeling up.
I check my watch. It’s 7.30 a.m. and time for me to go. A tight knot suddenly forms in my stomach. This is it. The day I’ve been dreaming about for so long. The thought that Charlie could be off sick, or on a school trip, or the dozen other reasons why he might not be at school, is too unbearable to think about. I pop my head around Flora’s door to say goodbye and race down the stairs, smiling at the sound of her horrified voice.
‘Well, you’ll never get the job dressed like that, darling!’
*
I arrive at Wandsworth College in plenty of time to see the start of the school day. Blazer-clad pupils traipse in with varying levels of enthusiasm. The youngest stumble under a haphazard mix of bags and musical instruments. Older girls in long socks and short skirts amble in, checking their phones and occasionally screaming in either delight or horror – it’s hard to tell which.
Dotted amongst the navy-blue blazers is the odd polyester business suit, top and tailed with scruffy haircuts and scuffed shoes. They must be sixth formers, I realise, and zone in on them. I have the picture of Charlie from the newspaper with me, but I won’t need it; he may have grown cheekbones and stubble, but the essence of him is still imprinted on my brain.
As I watch from the opposite side of the road, I begin to notice that these young men share more than a dress code. I want to call their body language confidence, but I know it’s more than that, a sense of entitlement that private education breeds. I think back to when I was their age, how determined I was to escape Paul and Flora’s volatile lifestyle. But it was desperation rather than self-importance that led to my bold choices. Is Charlie like these boys? And if he is, what is he going to think of me?
The rush reduces to a slow trickle and then the bell goes, encouraging the last few stragglers to scurry past the security hut and into the main school grounds. With them inside, the entranceway is finally deserted. I stand for a while longer, staring into the quiet. A growing realisation seeps in.
He’s not coming.
The disappointment is so intense that I feel it physically. Stupid really. This is just a temporary setback. I have found him; he goes to this school and I can try again tomorrow. But it doesn’t work. Everything has been building up to this moment and it’s just another huge disappointment. My knees weaken and I allow my body to sink onto the damp pavement. My vision starts to blur. I try to blink the tears away, but they spill out anyway, taking Flora’s cheap mascara with them. I was so excited. Why can’t something just go right for a change?
And that’s when he appears.
Late for school, running with surprising
grace in an ill-fitting navy suit. I only catch a glimpse of him, but it’s enough to take my breath away. Because it’s my son. Charlie. His blue eyes are still as deep as I remember, and Dan’s beautiful bone structure has found a new home. A thousand thoughts rush through my mind as I stare, half in disbelief that this is actually happening. He looks different; tall and lean, and with a stiffness that I don’t remember. But he’s also completely familiar. All those years apart from him physically seem to just melt away.
Even though I’ve been dreaming about this moment for so long, now it’s here, I suddenly don’t want him to recognise me – my tear-stained face and worn-out clothes. Who would want that for a mother? Instinctively I lower my head and it’s only when he’s safely past me that I allow myself to watch his tall frame disappear into the school.
Once he’s gone, a surge of energy races through me and I leap to my feet. It’s all so confusing. There’s the joy of seeing him of course, but also the realisation of what I am now. No home; no job; no money. And what I did, of course. Could he ever accept me as his mother again? Do I even deserve a second chance? Perhaps I should follow the advice of that social worker and leave him be. But then again, I haven’t waited all this time to just walk away now.
I don’t know how long I spend staring at his school, frozen in indecision. But eventually the cold wind drags me out of my trance and I head towards the busy crossroads of Northcote Road and St John’s Hill.
Chapter 9
JANUARY 2002
Phoebe
A moment of lightness, a tiny squawk, and then he’s lain on my chest. My baby son. Tears form in the corner of my eyes and my smile stretches so wide that it aches. ‘Hello, baby,’ I whisper. His tiny body feels so vulnerable and I lift the soft blanket a little higher up his back. ‘Welcome to the world.’
