A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  ‘Fucking pigs,’ he mumbles in a bid to save face, and storms off towards the road, his group following obediently.

  Slowly I feel my breathing return to some acceptable level. I can’t let myself replay what just happened, how differently things could have turned out. That may be for another day, but I have different priorities right now. I look at Charlie, stood less than a metre away from me. This wasn’t in the plan. A range of physical reactions threaten to expose me – racing heart, pricking tears, Cheshire Cat smile – but I need to control them all. He hasn’t shown any sign of recognition; I can’t risk raising suspicion now.

  ‘Are you really police?’

  ‘No,’ I manage. At least I’m not worried about him recognising my voice. A decade of smoking has given me a new rasp.

  ‘You look like police.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Like you can handle yourself.’

  I think of my hardened face and wiry frame, of having to adapt to a life I could never have imagined. ‘You just looked like you needed a hand.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  His tone is defensive, closed. This isn’t how I wanted things to go, but of course he’s not going to be grateful; he orchestrated the whole thing after all. ‘You just seemed …’ But I don’t know what to say that won’t make him feel embarrassed. As well as being risky, goading gangs of kids is a strange way to behave.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’m meant to be at work.’ With that, he turns his back on me. I know I should let him go, but now I’ve got this close, I don’t want him to just walk away.

  ‘Where do you work?’ I call out after him, sounding more desperate than I planned.

  He pauses. Silence hangs in the cold air and I don’t think he’s going to answer. But finally he does. ‘Just a café, not far from here.’

  I don’t believe in telepathy, but I try it anyway, inwardly begging him to say more. Eventually he sighs and turns towards me. His hostility has faded, and I can see a trace of regret in his eyes, maybe even gratitude. ‘I suppose I probably owe you a coffee.’

  The sheer joy sparked by those words threatens to overwhelm me, but I can’t let it derail this opportunity. ‘Why not,’ I whisper, trying to match his nonchalance. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s on Old York Road,’ he adds. ‘Just five minutes on the bus.’

  The significance of that comment starts rapping at my temples. I haven’t been on a London bus since I moved back. But I can’t walk away from Charlie now, I’ve spent too long dreaming about this moment to cut it short.

  The stop is across the road from the park and I realise, with a mix of dismay and relief, that the bus we need to get is already there. A line of would-be passengers is shuffling towards the front door, while a trickle of people alights from the mid-section. Charlie joins the back of the queue and I focus on the collar of his jacket as I slot in behind him and try to keep my mind clear. I can do this.

  Finally Charlie reaches the front of the bus. I watch him climb up without hesitation and hover his phone over the yellow pad. Suddenly all my fears transfer to him and I feel a desperate urge to grab his collar and hoist him back onto the pavement. I want to hold his hand and run away, run backwards fourteen years and start again. How differently I would do things, if I had another chance.

  ‘You coming?’ He looks confused, embarrassed even. There are people behind me and I’m blocking their way. I need to do this.

  ‘Coming,’ I answer, but my brain and limbs aren’t connected. However much I scream at myself, my body isn’t moving. The other passengers barge past me, murmuring with impatience, while I stand stock-still. Frozen in fear.

  Chapter 11

  Ben

  What the hell is wrong with this woman? Why can’t she just get on the bus? Ben hesitates for a moment, unsure what to do next. His evening would be a lot simpler if she did just stay put and let him get to work saviour-free. And it’s not like he really owes her anything after she spoiled his fun. Well, not fun exactly. More like a burst of pure oxygen in his otherwise suffocating existence.

  Other people choose self-harm. Pinched skin for the beginner, a razor blade for the more advanced. Ben understands the release, the euphoria, that pain brings. But self-inflicted pain just feels like cheating. He tried it once – running his Swiss Army knife along his abdomen, with just enough force to allow the blood to bubble before thickening into a scab – but it left him feeling even more of a failure. Like a child playing with safety matches. No, goading others, not knowing how things will end up – that’s the kind of justice he deserves.

  He stares at the woman’s wide eyes, both fear and resolve shining through them. Against his better judgement, he feels a pang of sympathy for her. She did put her own safety on the line to stick up for him; she must have seen how the whole episode started, but hasn’t pulled him up on what a jerk he is.

  Without making a conscious decision to move, Ben finds himself reaching out, taking hold of her arm. He looks straight into her eyes, less vivid now behind the thin film of tears, and whispers, ‘It’s okay.’ Pathetic words really, but miraculously they seem to help. He feels her body relax, just slightly, and he takes the opportunity to steer her inside. The bus driver is either feeling sympathetic or simply in a hurry to leave because he doesn’t even ask for payment. Just swings the doors closed and sets off.

  But Ben’s still holding her arm. He hates this level of intimacy, but it’s shaking so much that if he loosens his grip, he can’t be sure she won’t just drop to the floor in a heap. And that would be even more humiliating. So he just stands there. Holding on. He doesn’t want to make eye contact with her again either, so he stares out of the window and wills the bus to reach his stop as quickly as possible.

  What feels like hours later, although is about five minutes, the bus draws into the Alma Road stop. He’d been worried that the woman would adopt the same painfully slow pace getting off the bus, but actually, perhaps obviously, she reacts in the opposite way, and within seconds they’re standing awkwardly together at the top of East Hill, like the final stage of some embarrassing blind date. He watches as she gulps at the fresh air and he feels the urge to do the same. Eventually he turns down Alma Road and starts walking towards the café, aware that she’s fallen in step beside him. With the calming effect of the cold November air, he decides to risk a glance in her direction.

  He’s always been quite amused by how easy it is to read people. Everyone thinks they’re unique, but it’s not true. Whether it’s builders from Eastern Europe, or city boys from the East End, people find their clan, and can’t help following its code. But this woman is harder to pinpoint. She’s dressed in that fake scruffy way that loads of new mums love: skinny jeans and trainers, branded hoodie poking out of a navy Puffa jacket. But her face tells a different story. It’s hardened, like she’s got six kids at home and a husband who doesn’t give a shit. Her eyes are a special shade of blue though, and there’s something strangely familiar about them.

  She turns towards him and Ben realises with horror that he’s staring at her. Their eyes catch for a moment, and then he whips his head round, smarting with embarrassment. To distract himself, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his packet of cigarettes. He extracts one and positions it between his lips. Then he proffers the packet towards her, keeping his eyeline facing downwards, and after a moment of indecision she accepts. Her mumble of thanks breaks the silence and Ben feels a notch more relaxed as they stop for him to light it for her.

  ‘Sorry about all that on the bus.’

  There’s genuine apology in her voice and Ben feels the tension drop a bit further. He could ask her about it, where it stems from, what she’s actually scared of. But he doesn’t want to know. He’s got enough issues of his own to deal with. ‘No problem,’ he says, in a tone designed to halt the conversation. A few minutes later they reach the bottom of the hill and he guides her left past a couple of boutiques, a dentist surgery and a yoga studio.

  ‘We�
��re here,’ he says when they arrive outside Bittersweet. He pauses, the awkwardness suddenly glaring. How is he going to explain this woman to Marco or Hana? Oh, hi guys, I was out looking for a kicking, and this badass superhero saved me from myself. And now we’re best friends because, as it turns out, she’s as much of a freak as I am. Ben shudders at the thought of how accurate that explanation would be.

  ‘I know you have to work,’ she says. It’s as though she’s read his mind. ‘I’ll just sit in the corner and you can bring me a coffee when you get a chance.’ She pauses then, as though weighing up her next comment before deciding to say it. ‘After all, we don’t want you getting into trouble, do we?’

  It’s subtle, but Ben catches it. The tease in her voice. The tiny smirk at the corners of her mouth. She’s only known him for half an hour, but already seems to have got the measure of him. The boy who goes looking for trouble. It should infuriate him, her taking the piss like that, but weirdly it has a different effect; almost like he’s touched by her attention. He raises one eyebrow in response and pushes open the door.

  ‘Hey, Posh Boy, you made it! I thought maybe you’d had a better offer.’

  ‘Sorry, man,’ Ben apologises flippantly, knowing his easy-going manager doesn’t care about him being a few minutes late. ‘Bus issues.’ But Marco has already lost interest in Ben. He’s looking at the woman stood next to him, plastering a grown-up smile on his face. Holding out his hand in the formal British way that he thinks people still do in the UK. That some people do still do, Ben has to acknowledge, like his parents.

  Parents. It hits him that Marco has never met his mum. That this crazy Italian is holding back his usual chat because he thinks this woman is Ben’s mother. He can’t help erupting into laughter, while also feeling suddenly anxious to put him straight. While he quite enjoys the thought of how horrified his actual mother would be to get mistaken for this woman, the truth is, he’s not particularly keen on the idea of her being his mum either.

  ‘Marco, let me introduce you to—’ Jesus, he doesn’t even know her name.

  ‘I’m F-F-Fiona,’ she pipes up, saving him. He hadn’t noticed a stammer before. He’s starting to think this woman has even more problems than him.

  ‘Yeah, um, Fiona helped me out earlier. So I said I’d shout her a coffee.’ Ben finds that he can’t make eye contact with his boss; he knows his explanation doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. So he’s grateful when Marco chooses not to push it.

  ‘Of course! A coffee on the house, no problem. What can I get you? Latte? Flat white? Or Hana could make you a macchiato. She’s in training you see …’

  ‘Jdi do prdele, Marco!’ a voice carries from behind the coffee bar. Ben has no idea what his co-barista has said in her native Czech, but guesses it’s not a compliment. However, Marco only seems pleased with her fiery reaction, like it’s some affirmation of her secret love for him. Ben can’t help feeling a stab of jealousy as he watches his boss guide Fiona to the table closest to the window, gesticulating wildly while regaling some anecdote or other. Why the hell can’t life be that easy for him?

  Chapter 12

  Phoebe

  I’m trapped, there’s no escape. A hand grabs at my arm. A face. It’s Dan. Has he come to save me? But no, it’s not Dan. It’s him. He’s pulling me close. He’s smiling. It’s now, he’s going to do it now …

  I clamp my hand over my mouth just in time to smother the scream. I couldn’t bear Flora coming to check on me; one part concern, four parts confusion on her sagging face. I sit up against the headboard and try to push the images away. It’s not hard, I have much better ones to replace them with now. I think about Charlie reaching for my arm last night, reassuring me as my heart thudded along with the chug of the bus’s engine. It was as though, in that one moment, he was offering his forgiveness. Stupid really; he doesn’t even know who I am.

  The cigarette was a mistake though. After the bus ride I felt like I’d earned it, and I didn’t want to turn Charlie down, that sense of sharing something with him was so good. But I can already feel the urge for another.

  I reach over for my watch to check the time. It’s still early. I’d promised Flora that we’d spend today together but she’s not going to be up for hours and I need to work off this itch of adrenaline. I met my son last night! And he’s handsome and kind and funny. But he’s also angry, especially with himself. I need to make some sense of how I’m feeling. I need some fresh air.

  A few minutes later I pull the front door closed behind me. The cold air is soothing against my flushed face and I draw in two or three big breaths before heading down the street and turning north towards Battersea Park. The huge green space is so familiar. It was a constant during my childhood; a place to hang out with friends after school, or disappear to on my own when things got too crazy at home. But I have a specific reason to visit there now. I need to tell someone about meeting Charlie, otherwise I’ll burst.

  My grandma only moved out of London once – she was sent to live with an aunt in Sussex for a year when the Blitz was at its worst – but that time in the countryside turned her into a lifelong nature lover. She began volunteering at Battersea Park as soon as my Aunt Clemmy started school, so I could always find her pruning or potting on a Friday afternoon. She’d been there almost forty years when her breast cancer was first diagnosed, and it was one of the last things she gave up when it spread to her bones. So it was never in doubt that her ashes would be scattered here.

  I sit down on the bench opposite a bank of rose bushes, a few still holding on to their autumnal bloom. In Loving Memory of Violet Simpson, the bench is inscribed. That’s not my grandma, of course; Flora would never have been that organised. But this was her favourite place to sit, and Dan and I brought her here a few times towards the end of her life. He would butt her wheelchair up against the edge of the bench and I’d hold her hand. He’d leave us to it for a while then, offer to get coffees from the little hut by the petting zoo. Whether it was to give me precious moments alone with my grandma, or just a break for him, I never really knew.

  As I listen to the morning birdsong, I can see why she liked it here. I relax into the bench a little more. ‘I found him, Nana,’ I whisper. My grandma died two years before Charlie was born so the only way she could meet him was like this, me bringing him to be inspected by a rose bush, so it doesn’t feel strange, talking to her about him now. ‘Although he’s not Charlie anymore, he’s called Ben.’

  And I’m Fiona. Where did that come from? I think of Fiona Bruce – glamorous, intelligent, easily holding a rabble of politicians to account on Question Time – and the name feels even more out of place. But I couldn’t tell him I was called Phoebe, just in case it conjured up some memories. Now I’ve found him, I can’t let the truth derail things.

  ‘And he goes to a private school, like Flora always pretended she’d been to.’ My mother was an enigma from the day she was born apparently, this dazzling star in an otherwise ordinary family. My grandparents were in awe of Flora, while they were mainly a disappointment to her. She adopted a posh accent when she was still in primary school, and even the swinging Sixties couldn’t persuade her to give it up. With such grand castles in the air, perhaps her life was always predestined to be a disappointment.

  ‘But he’s hurting, Nana. Is that my fault? For what I did to him?’ I can almost see her weighing up the question, the rose petals wafting side to side in the breeze. She was never very sure of herself and didn’t like giving advice, so it would take her ages to say anything. I always appreciated that reflection, but as I listen to her silent response now, I find it deafening.

  ‘But it must be my job to fix him too?’ There’s an unattractive whine in my voice now. ‘They’ve had him for years, and they’ve failed. I’m the only chance he has left. I have to make this right, don’t I?’ I was one of three grandchildren but my cousins grew up in Leeds so I was always her favourite. It also helps that I’m a carbon copy of Flora – but a calmer, less exhaustin
g version. She could never deny me anything for long, and with that final beg I feel her comforting cloak of approval descend onto me.

  I stand up with a fresh resolve and pull one of the dying roses off its stem. By the time I get home its petals have disintegrated between my fingers, but at least I managed to stop myself buying a packet of cigarettes at the corner shop.

  *

  It’s lunchtime by the time Flora and I head off. As we totter down the road, I notice that my mother has made an effort for our day out. She looks like a cross between Vivienne Westwood and Joan Collins. If I tried to wear a glittery orange coat and bright pink scarf over a black cocktail dress and leopard print heels, I’d look ridiculous. But somehow Flora manages to pull it off. Just about.

  ‘Battersea Arts Centre?’ she exclaims when I tell her where we’re going. ‘What a lovely idea! I was there last month, actually. Helping a young theatre group with their performance. They call it Scratch – getting feedback from experienced actors to help them develop their ideas. Wonderful initiative. Awful name, of course. Makes me itch every time I think of it.’

  I know that Scratch is open to everyone, not just people with acting backgrounds, but I don’t take the opportunity to put her straight. ‘It’s not a performance,’ I begin carefully. ‘There’s an art display in the Grand Hall. Finalists from the Wandsworth Young Artist of the Year competition.’

  My explanation hangs in the air for a moment as I try to gauge her reaction. She loves the venue, with its own history of populist campaigning, and art is one of the few things that can drag her attention away from her next drink for a while. But there’s always the chance she’ll make the connection, so I hold my breath.