A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  He takes a left and starts striding. He’s not convinced this is going to work, but what choice does he have? He needs to sort his head out before it’s time for work.

  ‘Training for the army, mate?’

  Ben hears a snigger and looks up. A kid is stood on the pavement – maybe 11 or 12 – working his way through a bag of Haribo. ‘What did you say?’ he growls.

  ‘Easy, fam, you just looked a bit weird, you know, marching like that.’

  Ben stares at the boy; his smirking face littered with tiny pimples. It’s the kind of face that might have been called angelic once, before puberty set in and smeared it with grease and hormones. ‘Think you’re tough, do you, taking the piss like that?’

  ‘Well, I ain’t scared of a skinny fucker like you.’

  The resurgence of his earlier anger is so intense that it takes Ben a moment to react physically. But then clarity descends. He lunges forward with his right hand, grabs the kid around the face, and pushes his fingers into the boy’s soft jowls. He can feel the undulating ridge of new molars. He squeezes harder. ‘Scared now though, aren’t you?’ he goads, dragging the boy by his face and pushing him back against the nearest wall, enjoying the sound of his spine connecting with the brickwork. The boy tries to say something, but Ben’s grip has turned his pleas into incoherent babble.

  ‘Name?’ he demands. Nothing. ‘Tell me your fucking name!’

  ‘It’s Dom,’ the boy manages through the tears and spit.

  ‘Well, Dom, I’m going to kill you now, okay?’ Ben doesn’t recognise his own voice, it’s so full of venom. He pulls the boy towards him slightly, then uses all his force to whack the smaller body back against the hard bricks.

  ‘I’m sorry all right? Please. I thought …’

  ‘You need to learn some respect.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would be like this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought you looked cool, nice.’

  Ben suddenly releases his hand in disgust. Self-disgust. What the hell is he doing? The kid is half his size. What was he thinking? He smooths down the boy’s collar, but he can’t wipe away the fingerprints on his face, or the bruises that will form underneath. He can’t wind the clock back and ignore the taunts. Were they even that? He looks down at the boy. He hardly reaches Ben’s chest, for Chrissakes. When the distinctive smell of escaped urine reaches his nostrils, he can’t look anymore. He turns around and starts running in the opposite direction.

  He runs until his lungs run out of oxygen and his leg muscles start cramping. Then he doubles over and vomits on the pavement. He walks on, away from the stench, his heartbeat still roaring in his ears, and finally his hands stop shaking for long enough to light a cigarette. He draws in the bitter taste, feels the instant nicotine hit, and screws up his face against the tears that want to fall. He’s such a fuck-up. The adopted kid with wayward genes.

  He thinks about his conversation with Fiona the night before, telling her about his birth mother. His words had clearly shocked her, but why? Could it be that she doesn’t think he’s as crazy as he feels? She is always so encouraging, certain that he has some baseline integrity; he wonders what she would make of him terrorising a child. But the cigarette does its job, and as he flicks the butt onto the road, he feels calm enough to banish the images and start his journey to work.

  *

  ‘You okay, Ben?’

  Shit. Marco never calls him Ben, never asks if he’s okay. His eyes must still look red, his breath stinking of fags.

  ‘Yeah, you?’ He tries to sound casual, but it comes out defensive.

  Marco hesitates. Ben waits.

  ‘I am more than okay. I opened the twelfth window on my advent calendar this morning and out popped a small but perfectly shaped bottle of Aperol. There’s nothing that says Christmas more than an Aperol spritz for breakfast, Posh Boy.’

  In spite of his day, Ben can’t help smiling, as much for Marco’s decision not to push things with him as for the image he’s conjured up. ‘Where do you want me?’

  ‘Hana and Fiona have called shotgun on creating Christmas, so you and me are running the show tonight. I’ll clear the tables; you start behind the counter – once you’ve dropped your pack off.’

  Just the mention of his rucksack sends a rush of adrenaline through Ben; like Marco has gained X-ray vision and can see what’s inside. As he nods, he pulls the rucksack tight against his frame. He doesn’t want to risk the cans clinking together as he makes his way into the kitchen.

  Running the orders by himself keeps Ben busy and he’s grateful for it. He enjoys the precision of coffee making. Knowing the exact amount of coffee to use, the appropriate intensity of compression, balancing the milk and froth, perfecting the Bittersweet chocolate motif. And he needs the comfort of that certainty this evening.

  However, working alone also means regular bouts of humiliation. For someone who is usually so chilled out, Marco is adamant that Ben doesn’t sell alcohol directly. So every time a customer decides to have a beer with their panini or pasta salad, Ben has to ask Marco to come and ring up the sale. It highlights what a kid he still is, which is not what he wants in front of Hana. And tonight, it seems to be happening every five minutes.

  Hana and Fiona are in Blue Peter mode. Apparently Jo dumped a box of decorations off earlier with instructions to transform the place into some kind of Santa’s grotto; there’s a competition running along Old York Road and Marco said she was quite upfront about her need to win first prize. The fairy lights are up, flashing around the window frame. And the two of them are now decorating the newly acquired Norwegian pine. A fake tree would never satisfy Jo’s standards.

  Ben has mixed feelings about Christmas. Mainly, he hates it. Spending long, boring days trying to avoid his family. Particularly his mum when her stress levels skyrocket. And those conflicting emotions on Christmas morning: pleasure at getting a massive pile of gifts, guilt for knowing he doesn’t deserve them. And always wrapped up in a fundamental disappointment for life being no different from the day before. But the anticipation of Christmas can still, totally irrationally, excite him a bit.

  ‘I gave you a twenty.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Ben looks back towards the customer he’s just served: a middle-aged man trying to look cooler than he is in Spoke chinos and bright white Nike trainers. He reminds Ben of his dad.

  ‘You’ve given me change for ten pounds, I gave you twenty.’

  Ben looks down at the guy’s cupped hand. A fiver, two pound coins and four twenty-pence pieces: exactly the right change required for his takeaway peppermint tea. Because he definitely paid with a ten-pound note.

  ‘You gave me a tenner.’

  ‘Check the till. It was twenty.’

  If the guy was angry, shocked even, Ben might not mind so much. But he’s calm. Patronising. Not a whiff of self-doubt.

  ‘So you’re about 45, yeah?’

  ‘What?’ The guy’s a bit flustered all of a sudden. Good.

  ‘Did you know that you’ve been losing about ten thousand brain cells a year for the last twenty-five years?’

  ‘Look, I’m not sure what your point is, but—’

  ‘So by my calculation, you’ve got about a quarter of a million fewer brain cells than me.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ He’s angry now, Ben notes with satisfaction. Sweat is starting to bead on his shiny forehead.

  ‘That I’m right, and you’re fucking dumb.’ Ben stares hard at the customer. What does he want? The guy to walk away, defeated, crowning Ben the victor. Or for him to reach over the counter and grab Ben around the face, dig his nails in. Neither happens though because Fiona walks up.

  ‘I am so sorry, sir.’ She pings open the till, whips out a ten-pound note. ‘Please accept our apologies. It’s been a long, busy day.’ She pauses, changes her mind, scoops up a few coins. ‘Have your drink on the house too, it’s the least we can do.’

  Ben watches her drop the money into
the man’s still-open palm, and smile at him pleadingly. After a moment’s hesitation, he throws Ben one last disgusted look, and marches out of the café.

  Now that it’s just the two of them, Ben steels himself for a telling-off. It will be quietly delivered; this is Fiona after all. But after his day, he doesn’t know if he can even handle that. Seconds pass without her saying anything. Jesus, he needs to get this over with. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you going to tell Marco?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Her answer is immediate, impulsive, and Ben relaxes slightly. ‘For all I know, you gave him the right change and the guy was just pulling a fast one.’

  Despite his anger still looking for an outlet, Ben feels a surge of gratitude. Plenty of people forgive him, but rarely do they believe him. ‘Thanks,’ he whispers.

  ‘Separating right from wrong,’ she continues. ‘It’s not always that easy. I’m not going to start pretending I know best.’

  Ben shifts from one foot to the other. Fiona’s words seem to have a drug-like effect on him. He’s not sure they’re good for him, but he wants more. ‘I’m going for a fag. Do you want to come?’

  He likes the smile that forms on her face; it makes him feel powerful, like he’s got a voice worth listening to. Ben suddenly realises that he could tell this woman anything; she won’t judge him. And he needs to talk to someone otherwise he’ll go insane. He pushes the back door open and they walk outside together.

  Chapter 24

  Phoebe

  It’s midday when Flora finds me curled up on the sofa. After breakfast I’d considered cleaning the house, but I just couldn’t dredge up any enthusiasm, so I’d found an old script of Paul’s in his study and tried to lose myself in Pinter instead. My mind had wandered to Charlie of course, the sins he’d confessed to. It breaks my heart to think he’s capable of attacking a young boy. I didn’t show it of course. I couldn’t risk him putting the barriers back up. I just nodded sympathetically, took a second cigarette and assured him that the boy will be fine. Physically he will be, but I know how long the effects of trauma can last. Ben seemed lighter after his confession, like he’d transferred the burden of his anger to me. I suppose I deserve it.

  ‘Not working today, darling?’ Flora hasn’t mentioned Charlie since our late-night exchange in the garden. Sometimes I daydream that she’s forgotten, that all those gin and tonics have eaten away at her memory sufficiently to let me off the hook. I know that’s just wishful thinking though.

  ‘Day off.’

  ‘I suppose that’s sensible.’

  I look up from the script. There’s a gravity to her tone that puts me on my guard. ‘Why sensible?’

  ‘Well I imagine he’d appreciate some space today.’ She walks over to the fireplace. There’s an advent calendar on the mantelpiece and she removes it before sinking into the armchair opposite me. I listen to her count the numbers up, get to thirteen and pause. ‘Gosh, Friday the thirteenth,’ she murmurs, as though warning herself about impending doom. But she recovers quickly, and I watch her slice open the little window with her electric blue talon. ‘Ah it’s a little robin, how lovely.’ She drops the chocolate into her mouth. ‘It’s a good job we chose yesterday, isn’t it? When you still had luck on your side.’

  My heartbeat starts thudding faster. ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘To tell Charlie the truth.’

  The twelfth of December: is it really a month since our showdown in the garden? For fourteen years, every day felt like it dragged; since I’ve found Charlie, the opposite seems to be true. I look at the advent calendar still in Flora’s hands and curse Christmas. Flora hardly knows what month it is usually, let alone the day. But she’s never got over the excitement of chocolate being added to advent calendars and has bought one every year since about 1985. Which means, in December, she knows the date on a daily basis.

  With panic silently rising, I consider pretending. Make up a story about him being shocked at first, then softening, listening to my explanation and understanding why I had to leave him. But I know she’d see right through me; then uncover my lie by demanding to be introduced. Her deadline was always going to catch up with me.

  ‘I haven’t told him,’ I finally admit. ‘He’s still not ready.’

  ‘But Phoebe, you promised.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘You’re being selfish.’

  ‘I’m scared for him, what he might do if I told him.’

  ‘Maybe Charlie is stronger than you think.’ She pauses. ‘Stronger than you were.’

  ‘Don’t compare this to what I suffered!’

  ‘I gave you a month,’ she reminds me, extending each word to drill home her point. ‘And you promised me.’

  Her seriousness has a dramatic edge, and I wonder for a moment if this is just a performance. Flora’s world rarely extends beyond herself; perhaps this isn’t about Charlie after all. ‘Is this about punishing me?’ I ask. ‘For being weak?’

  ‘Why does everything have to be about you?’

  The irony is palpable. I slam the script down on the sofa, but the tinny thwack doesn’t satisfy so I jump to my feet. She stands up too, as though she needs to defend herself from me. In five steps I’m close enough to see the heavy foundation already pooling in her expanded pores, the garish lipstick seeping into the many cracks. I ignore the fear that glistens in her eyes.

  ‘Leave us alone,’ I growl.

  ‘I gave you plenty of chances.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, Flora!’

  ‘It’s not me who’s playing make-believe.’ She pauses. ‘But perhaps it’s going to be my job to make him believe.’ And with that threat, she darts out of the room.

  *

  It’s a relief to get out of the house. I only go as far as Sainsbury’s Local on Battersea Park Road, but the winter air calms my temper. I had planned to buy some fresh ingredients and cook a proper meal, spaghetti bolognaise maybe, or chicken stir-fry. But I’m not in the mood anymore. If Charlie can lose control over a slice of ham, how the hell would he react to finding out I’m his mother? And that I’ve been lying to him all this time? Why has Flora chosen now to be so proactive in my life? I pick up three microwave meals on special offer and whip them through the self-service till.

  I walk to the park after that. I had hoped to sit on the swing for a while, let its gentle motion help me decide what to do, but unfortunately both swings are occupied, and the unwelcome stares I get from a group of mothers stood nearby persuade me to leave them to it. I need to stop Flora telling Charlie the truth, but how? My only hope is that her gin-addled brain won’t be able to figure out a plan, that the enormity of telling him the truth, of how he might react, will hold her back. But for how long?

  I eat my tagliatelle carbonara straight out of the black plastic container. I left it in the microwave for too long and the first mouthful burns the roof of my mouth, but the creamy sauce and salty ham taste delicious and it isn’t long before I’m scraping the last of the sauce out of the corners and wishing I could have another. I make myself a cup of tea instead and return to the living room. The rich food has made me sleepy, so I do my best to plump up the saggy cushions and close my eyes; oblivion is exactly the tonic I need right now.

  I clearly do fall asleep because the daylight is low when Paul walks into the living room, waking me up. I rub at my eyes, then push myself to sitting and plaster on a smile. I’ve hardly seen him since the night he found out about Charlie; his style has always been to avoid confrontation and he’s stayed predictably hidden ever since.

  ‘I hear it’s your day off,’ he says, sitting down next to me.

  I nod, smile. I search his eyes for a hint of what Flora might have told him, and it’s a relief to see no sign of recrimination. ‘I picked up some food for your dinner,’ I offer. ‘Something easy.’

  ‘Ah, apparently your mother and I are going out.’

  ‘What?’ They hardly go out separately anymore. They never go
out together.

  ‘Yes, I was rather surprised too. But Flora is keen.’

  ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘She’s being very mysterious. Won’t tell me where.’

  My heart starts hammering. This is why he doesn’t know yet; I know where she’s taking him. So much for alcohol delaying her.

  ‘But I bought food. Maybe you could go another time?’ I sound shrill but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, darling, but Flora is quite set on the idea.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come too then?’ I suggest, my panic rising. I can’t imagine sitting there with them, but I also can’t let them loose on Charlie alone.

  ‘Actually, darling, I was hoping that Paul and I could have some quality time together.’ Flora has sashayed into the room and the message in her stare is quite clear: You’re not talking me out of this again.

  ‘Really?’ It’s Paul turn to look surprised now.

  ‘You wouldn’t deny us that, would you, darling?’

  Of course I would deny them whatever it took to protect my son, but I hesitate before answering and then it’s too late.

  She reaches out to Paul with both hands and flashes him her brightest smile. ‘It’ll be fun, just you and me, like the old days.’

  Even after all these years of selfish acts and drunken embarrassments, he can’t resist her. With an almost apologetic glance in my direction he gets up off the sofa and lets her lead him out of the room.

  The clang of the front door closing feels like a prison sentence. I shut my eyes and imagine the two of them walking into Bittersweet, taking a table close to the counter; Flora holding one of Paul’s hands while pointing at Charlie, confirming who he is. What will happen next? Will Flora just get his attention and then blurt out the truth alongside their panini order? Or will they wait until closing, ask for five minutes when he’s mopping the floor?