A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  Of course I’d love to tell Flora the truth about Charlie; she had a better relationship with him than she ever did with me. Being a grandparent proved perfect for her: dip in and out as you please, have all the fun with none of the responsibility. Maybe she’d be on my side; her respect for the law is flimsy at best. But what if she didn’t approve? And decided to tell that social worker? I just can’t risk it.

  ‘Does that sound okay?’ I ask, and this time she answers immediately.

  ‘Wonderful, darling!’

  I sigh with relief and try to ignore the niggling sense of guilt.

  ‘And perhaps we can stop by the Scratch Bar after – my treat?’

  *

  The exhibition is free to enter and the Grand Hall, with its ornate features and impressive domed ceiling, is full of people wandering from piece to piece, making admiring noises while trying to rein in small children as they slide around the polished floor. I remember the relentless energy that Charlie had at that age, especially when I needed him to behave. Racing around supermarkets, refusing to sit in the trolley. Pouring endless plastic cups of water at the doctors’ surgery, obsessed with the glug-glug sound of the water dispenser. How annoyed I would get with him then. What a waste of precious time, I realise now.

  ‘Gosh what a wonderful collection of art, Phoebe darling. Can you believe this artist is only 14!’ Flora almost shrieks as she stares at an Andy Warhol-style self-portrait. ‘Can you imagine having a talent like that?’ It’s true that the teenager is a far better artist than me, but her implied insult rankles all the same, so I take the opportunity to wander off. Now that I’m this close, the urge to find Charlie’s winning painting is almost painful.

  There are three different age categories within the Wandsworth Young Artist of the Year competition, and I know that’s Charlie entry will be in the 15 to 17 years group. While the standard of art created by the younger children is impressive, I’m impatient to get to the back of the room where the oldest category is on display.

  But as I weave my way through the crowd of visitors, a thought pops into my mind. Charlie could be here. Of course he’d want to see his own work on display, and he wouldn’t get chance to visit during the week. I can’t risk bumping into him again. I slow my pace and scan the room. Most of the visitors are older than Charlie; proud parents and grandparents, as well as the odd genuine art lover, plus plenty of young families and senior citizens looking for a cheap and warm way to spend their afternoon. It seems that the art students have stayed away, I decide with relief.

  Once I’m sure Charlie’s not here, I walk towards the final display and his work jumps out instantly, a large oil painting on canvas, its title printed on a small piece of card, Blu-tacked to the wall. London Streets Through a Child’s Eyes. The angle is captivating. Is that really what children see? Hundreds of human legs, and buildings towering above them like mountains. Almost without realising what I’m doing, I bend down, trying to find the same perspective. I’m fully crouching by the time I reach it. I feel hemmed in and free to roam all at the same time. It’s been a long time since I was that size, and the discovery is quite exhilarating.

  Until I realise that I’m the height of a 3-year-old. Is that why he painted this picture? Has he held on to that viewpoint ever since I left him? I swallow back the acid forming in my mouth. Carefully I straighten up, reach hold of the table behind me. Flora is here somewhere. At any moment she could pounce on me, drag me to see some other amazing piece of child art or off to the Scratch Bar for a gin and tonic. I try to exhale slowly, but it comes out in heaves. The room starts to spin.

  ‘Worthy winner, I’d say.’

  A loud voice cuts through my rising panic and I cling on to it, use it to pull me back. ‘The painting?’ I manage.

  ‘His use of colour, how the shading graduates. It’s very impressive.’ The man booms with praise; large, callused hands wave towards the easel with enthusiasm.

  Steeling myself, I look back at Charlie’s picture. I had been so lost in the perspective that I hadn’t noticed how intricately the busy cityscape is painted, or how he’s managed to give the tiny commuters a harassed edge. ‘It’s got a special energy about it,’ I say. A sense of awe has crept into my tone and the man turns to look at me, a curious expression on his ruddy face.

  ‘Do you know him, the artist?’

  Uniquely, I want to say. But of course, I don’t really know him at all. I imagine him getting the envelope through his shiny letterbox, announcing his success, and the family celebration that followed. With a house like that, they’re bound to have a spare bottle of champagne in the fridge. The dad would have opened it, poured everyone a glass. The pretty blonde sister would have giggled as she raised hers, made some comment about him having the brain of a toddler too maybe. And the mother. She would have looked on proudly, like it was her doing, his talent, even without the gift of DNA. I look back at the man, his dense grey beard splaying out over the high collar of his navy Rohan fleece, and shake my head.

  ‘Well, I imagine he’s a good lad,’ he continues. ‘It’s hard work, painting something like this. The layering, this level of detail. He’s clearly got some grit.’

  I think back to the night I met Charlie again, his determination to get a beating, the sacrifice he was willing to make to satisfy some compulsion. It’s good to see that steeliness translated into something as mesmerising as this picture. But before I respond, a woman’s voice drifts over, a lady my age standing just the other side of Charlie’s newest fan.

  ‘I never thought of it like that.’ It’s a simple comment, spoken quietly, but it still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, like I can sense danger in her clipped, upper-class accent. I take a few steps backwards and drop my gaze to the floor.

  ‘Oh certainly. This would have taken ages.’ The man’s attention is now with the posh woman. I slink a bit further away, then risk looking at her. Her long blonde hair is regulation straight without the slightest wave or tangle. She’s wearing a black cashmere jumper underneath a grey herringbone jacket, and her ears sparkle with twin diamonds. I have never seen her before, and yet I know exactly who she is. I watch her drop her head slightly to the right as though she’s seeing the picture for the first time.

  ‘Thank you for your insight,’ she says finally. ‘Hard work is usually his sister’s domain.’

  And there it is. What my gut knew all along.

  ‘You’re his mother?’ the man asks. ‘Well, I must congratulate you on raising a very talented artist.’

  I watch her smile her thanks and I fight the urge to scratch it off her face.

  Chapter 13

  FEBRUARY 2004

  Phoebe

  ‘To a new start.’

  We clink glasses and I make a silent wish that he’s right. That this perfect little house – albeit with its eye-wateringly large mortgage – will be the catalyst that allows us to reclaim what we have somehow managed to lose. Clanwell Street is only a ten-minute walk from our old flat, but it feels like a world away. This neat grid of small Victorian terrace houses is full of young families, smiling as they pass each other with their matching Bugaboo pushchairs. I have the same model, and I’m torn between happiness at being part of the gang and mourning the Phoebe who preferred to trailblaze.

  ‘I think it’s good that you’re going back to work too.’

  I nod. It’s what he wants to see, but that decision wasn’t easy either. The first six months with Charlie were hard work: sleepless nights, unexplained temperature spikes, those long hours listening to him cry; but I loved them. Feeling so completely necessary. It was only after that, when he was sleeping through the night and had settled into a comfortable routine, that I started to get bored. And that’s when I began wondering if I could be a working mum without damaging him, or weakening our bond. Dan was desperate to move up the property ladder; his promotion to associate partner had fuelled a desire to own a house, so the extra salary would come in handy too. In the end, I’d me
t with Richie and we’d scrabbled together a plan – three days in the office plus part-time hours from home. I’ll keep my demanding clients happy, and be there for Charlie. It’s still a leap though; I haven’t thought much beyond feeding techniques and infant sleeping patterns for nearly a year.

  I look around at the dozens of storage boxes, the neatness of their stacking not hiding the huge task ahead of us. The movers sorted out the big stuff – the sofas and beds, Charlie’s cot. But the rest of it is down to us, and Dan has already told me that he can’t take any more time off work. I start back with Richie in March, which gives me a month to get this place feeling like a home.

  ‘Life will get busier though,’ I warn. ‘When I’m back at work.’

  ‘We’ll handle it. And it will do you good, being back out there. A reason to do your hair, put some make-up on again.’

  His words sting and I find myself struggling not to cry. That’s something else new, my much thinner skin. Of course I know he’s right; I don’t bother with myself like I used to. It’s not a conscious decision; there’s just never a point in the day when I think about needing lipstick. Parenthood hasn’t had the same effect on Dan; his body is still firm from his regular gym visits, and his investment in designer clothes hasn’t dropped. I can smell expensive aftershave on him now, while perfume wasn’t a factor for me in getting ready to move house this morning. The imbalance makes me feel nervous.

  ‘We should make sure we set aside some time for us too.’ I shuffle closer along the sofa. I know it’s not just my declining appearance that has caused this rift, that I’ve made bigger mistakes. Those first two nights in hospital with Charlie were exhausting, but also life-changing. It was just me and him, so pure and perfect, and I didn’t want that to change when we got home. It didn’t take me long to realise my misstep, that Dan was part of our family too. But the damage was done by then. Perhaps not to their relationship – Dan would still slip into Charlie’s bedroom every night after work, gently stroke his sleeping body – but to ours.

  ‘Good idea,’ he says, and smiles at me. But I’m not sure it reaches his eyes.

  I don’t get chance to probe any further though because we’re distracted by the buzz of his new Blackberry, a perk of having partner in his title now. I watch him pick it up and check the number before answering it, and I wonder who has managed to make his eyes smile.

  ‘I think I should come in,’ he says into the slab of black plastic. ‘It’s fine, we’re all unpacked. I can be there in half an hour.’ The unnamed colleague isn’t even asking him to go in; Dan is practically forcing it on him – or her. I suddenly feel stupid for shuffling up to him on the sofa.

  ‘Sorry, Phoebs,’ he says when the phone call ends. ‘GFR are threatening to pull the plug on the Bathgate acquisition. I can’t let the team handle it on their own.’

  ‘Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow?’ I hate the whine in my voice, how needy it sounds.

  ‘It doesn’t work that way, you know that. If they can’t get it signed off tonight, the deal’s off.’

  I do know that; the arrogance of solicitors and how they think their world is too important for sleep. There have been plenty of nights when Dan hasn’t made it home at all, making do with a few naps on his desk in between contract negotiations.

  ‘But it’s our first night in our new house. It should be special.’

  ‘Well, let’s not forget what’s paying for this special new house.’

  He kisses me on the forehead and I feel like a house pet, getting a scrap of affection before my master carries on with his life. He disappears out of the living room and I hear him put his trainers on – the smart suit rule not applicable at this time of night – and pick a set of keys off the table in the hallway. The door slams and then it’s just me. The setting might have changed but, it seems, not much else.

  I carry the half-finished glasses of now-flat champagne into the open-plan kitchen at the back of the house. I’m not used to so much space. The house I grew up in – where my parents still live – has a similar footprint but without the extension; even if they had the money (which they didn’t) there’s no way Flora and Paul would have had the wherewithal to organise building work on this scale. Flora might have liked the idea of an entertaining space, but it would never have got further than a periodic whim. So it was this room that sold the house to me when we first looked round. The children’s drawings Blu-tacked to the wall, magnetic letters spelling out random words on the fridge. Happy families. It was a game I wanted to play too.

  The silence is broken by a whimper, followed by a louder cry. When I put Charlie to bed this evening, I’d noticed how red his cheeks were, the tell-tale sign of teething, so I’m not surprised that he’s breaking his recently formed habit of sleeping through the night. I take the stairs two at a time.

  I peer over the cot and he instantly stops crying. I know this will only last a couple of seconds, that if I fail to lift him out, he’ll just start wailing again, but still, this power to comfort him is exhilarating. I reach down and pick him up. He likes to be held against my chest, with his head nestled into my neck. I arrange him into position and stroke his back underneath the quilted sleeping bag. His face is damp with tears against my skin and I gently rock from side to side to try and lull him back to sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry your teeth are hurting you,’ I whisper. It doesn’t feel right, that babies have to endure this pain; so small and innocent, and yet having to cope with breaking skin and aching jaws. ‘Mummy’s going to take care of you.’

  Eventually he falls silent. He’s fast asleep against my swaying chest now, but I don’t want to put him back. He feels substantial in my arms, something solid within the fragility of my marriage. I imagine life with just him and I; appealing in some ways, but I understand the loneliness of being an only child in an unconventional family. I’m not going to allow that to happen to Charlie. Finally I kiss his smooth head – the fuzziness he had as a newborn long gone but not replaced by hair yet – and lay him back in the cot. I need to try harder with Dan; I can’t let our marriage fail. For Charlie as much as for me. We will be a family, whatever it takes to get there.

  Chapter 14

  NOVEMBER 2019

  Ben

  Ben leans his head back against the cool bedroom wall. His T-shirt is damp from sweat and it’s not long before he’s shivering – no heating on at this time of night. He’s sitting on the floor between the bottom of his bed and the wardrobe, so it’s not difficult to reach up for his duvet, drag it over him. The warmth is more comforting than he expected, so he makes the extra effort to wrap it all the way around him, and pull it up to his neck.

  That nightmare again. He’s never told anyone about it, even though it’s been part of his life for as long as he can remember. In the early days, he’d wake up crying. His mum would rush in, sit on his bed and pull him in to her. He hated that too, but he taught himself to expect it and then it was manageable. But she never asked what the dream was about, and so he never told her.

  Although even now, he’s not sure how to explain it. It’s as though his eyes are closed in the dream. He can sense it, and hear the screaming. Other than that, all he remembers when he wakes up is a mess of dark shadows, colour seeping out around the edges. And just two piercing black dots, like a pair of eyes staring out at him. He’s tried to explain it through art, something else he keeps to himself, but while the process calms him down a bit, the paintings haven’t given him any clues as to what his dreams mean.

  He reaches his hand under the bed and feels the familiar art case. Foul dreams splattered on pieces of textured paper. It’s pathetic really. Being so scared of something he can’t see properly; of a dream that he can’t even explain. It’s not something he likes to repeat when he’s awake if he can help it, except that’s exactly what he did at school yesterday. Stuck in the main hall, struggling to breathe.

  Maybe that’s why the dream came tonight, because life has actually been pretty good over the las
t few days. The weekend could even be described as enjoyable. His mum went to see his painting on Saturday, which was a miracle in itself. And even more surprisingly, she’d come back looking almost proud. The mood was clearly catching, because his dad had then suggested going out for Sunday brunch to Ben’s favourite café on Northcote Road. There’d been no arguments over their avocado on toast (or in Ben’s case, doorstep bacon sandwich), no innocent questions laced with not-so-hidden meaning. His dad had even apologised for suggesting Ben give up his job. There’d been the odd Rosie worship of course, but he could cope with that.

  So Ben had woken up on Monday morning feeling quite good. He’d even suggested to Rosie that they walk to school together, although she’d looked so panicked at the idea – he wasn’t exactly known for his timekeeping – that he’d let her off the hook. He’d wandered in by himself, enjoying the half-hearted warmth of winter sunshine on his back, and even considered paying more attention in class.

  Which is why he didn’t expect to start panicking in the middle of assembly.

  Some guy had come to talk to them from the Violent Crime Task Force, one of the London Mayor’s pet projects apparently. No one was particularly interested in what he had to say. Serious youth violence up 46 per cent in five years. Stab wounds making up 38 per cent of under-25 hospital admissions. Him trying to shock. No one in the audience that bothered. Nothing to do with us posh white kids, sir.

  But as he kept reinforcing his message – nearly fifteen thousand knife crimes in London last year, how every young person needs to be vigilant – Ben started thinking about his run-in with those kids. What would he have done if one of them had pulled a knife on him? Stood in that overheated assembly hall, swaying slightly, he’d started to see the glint of a blade. Feel it stab inside him. Imagine himself lying in the muddy park, sticky blood oozing out of him.

  His vision had started to blur then. And when he’d tried to draw some deeper breaths, his tie suddenly felt too tight, his throat squeezed. He struggled to hold it together but still, the man went on. Listing the risk factors for violent behaviour. By the time he got to how looked after children make up 50 per cent of young people in custody, Ben had been shaking so much that he could barely stand up.