A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  ‘Everything all right here? Only we’ve had another call come in.’

  I look up at my crew mate, Mo. Then back down at my patient.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ she assures me, pushing against the kerb and up onto her feet. She starts brushing the dust off her jeans, the act slightly out of kilter against the worn-out denim. ‘Could you just tell me where Geneva Drive is? I’m a little lost.’

  She makes it sound like an offhand comment, but instinctively I know this is what caused her panic attack. The loss of direction, fear of the unknown. I pause for a moment, think of the questions I’d like to ask. But I’m a paramedic, not a counsellor. She’s physically okay now, so my job is done. ‘First right, then first left,’ I say, pointing at Somerleyton Road, just a hundred metres up from where we’re standing.

  She smiles her gratitude as my brief directions connect the dots for her. She turns to go, and I watch to make sure she takes the right corner before climbing into the truck next to Mo. He’s the senior medic between us but has elected to drive tonight, which means I’m front of house. ‘Where to next?’

  ‘Frequent flyer, I’m afraid.’ He checks his wing mirror and swings out onto the road. ‘Nice guy though, just wants to see a friendly face probably.’

  ‘Tea and biscuits?’

  ‘Always.’

  I settle back against the firm headrest and let my eyes close for a minute. We’ve been on shift since eight this morning and it’s been non-stop ever since. No knife injuries today though, thank goodness. I still remember the first time, back when I was studying, on placement with the ambulance team working out of St George’s Hospital. I pretended to observe the paramedics working on that poor boy. I even managed to grab the right kit out of the wagon when they asked. But I wasn’t really with them, I was back in my old garden with Ben. Luckily, as a student, I wasn’t expected to do much other than observe. Since I qualified a year ago, I’ve dealt with seventeen knife attacks, and each time the memory of my son clinging on to life fades a little. I’m still not sure whether that’s a good thing or bad.

  Mo pulls up outside a large Victorian house, which would be a lot more impressive if it weren’t for the overflowing wheelie bins lined up against the grubby brick wall, and the long-abandoned grass in the tiny front garden reaching halfway up the windows. ‘Geoff’s got a little flat on the ground floor,’ he explains. ‘His daughter owns the whole building and she used to live upstairs with her family, but she got a job in the Middle East somewhere, so they’ve moved over there and let their part out. Not sure the tenants are quite so house proud.’

  ‘Bit of a change for Geoff then.’ I have to shout my response because Mo is already out of the ambulance. I grab my bag and join him on the pavement.

  ‘Yeah, we all moan about family until they’re not around anymore.’ Mo’s easy grin reminds me how close he is to his own family; his mum holds legendary status at the ambulance station for the various baked goods she sends him in with. Flora has never reached that pinnacle, but we have built something. She never once said I told you so about Ben’s suicide attempt, and I stopped blaming her for my mistakes. It took time, but now I look forward to our monthly theatre trips more than I’m willing to admit.

  The bell doesn’t work, so I rap hard on the front door. After a moment, I hear the sound of shuffling feet, getting louder as they work their way towards me. When Geoff opens the door, the look of pleasure on his face goes some way to both reveal the true motive for his call and melt my heart. I give him a big smile and then Mo and I walk into the musty flat. A quick cup of tea won’t hurt.

  *

  It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time I get home. Finishing a shift on time is always a luxury so I’m neither surprised nor bothered that Friday night has all but disappeared without me. Especially knowing that I have the next week off, holiday signed off six months ago by a manager grateful that I’ll be back before the school summer holidays kick in.

  I find a half full bottle of wine in the fridge and pour myself a glass. There’s a hint of vinegar about it but I swallow it anyway; one of the downsides of never allowing myself more than one glass, but a discomfort I deserve. Four and a half years ago I sat outside the A&E block at St George’s Hospital in my bloodstained jacket, praying to every God I’d ever heard of to let Charlie live. And finally Meghan – my friend now, but just the kind Welsh paramedic to me then – gave me the best news I could possibly hope for. And I celebrated by buying a quarter litre of vodka and drinking the whole lot on my unsteady walk back to Battersea. And I didn’t stop there. Joined by Flora, and unopposed by Paul, I spent the rest of the festive season with a drink in my hand, the safe cocoon of alcoholic indifference proving too powerful to resist.

  Incredibly, it was Lucy who dragged me back. Prickly, perfect Lucy. Only she didn’t look so perfect when she turned up on my doorstep that cold January morning. She looked raw, dried out, like the oily layers of wealth and privilege had been stripped away from her. She looked more like me. Except that Lucy’s eyes were clear while mine were dazed and bloodshot. Even in my hungover state I knew that I didn’t want her to see how we lived, the empty gin bottles and layer of dust, so I guided her into the park across the road. It was my idea to sit on the swings – I wanted to avoid her eyes that were still sharp enough to judge me – but those swings seemed to release something in her. Before long she was flying up and back, rolling her body through the motions. Finally she stopped, and that’s when she said it.

  Thank you.

  The doctors had told her that I saved Charlie’s life. That he would have died from blood loss if I hadn’t acted so quickly, so correctly. It’s amazing how powerful those two words can be in the right context. I cried, then she cried. The two toddlers playing on the slide eyed us suspiciously and that made us laugh. We didn’t hug, or even dare touch each other, but something happened between us. Her look of respect for me was only fleeting, but I caught it. Returned it. And then I walked back into my parents’ house and started clearing up.

  It was Tom who suggested I train as a paramedic, at one of our meetings after I finally came clean about Ben; I don’t think of him as Charlie anymore. He said it might be a way of turning my experience into something positive. At first the idea seemed ridiculous – I’d had my chance at a proper life and thrown it away. But then I remembered the way Meghan treated Ben that night, how she mixed efficiency with compassion so perfectly. And I thought about the paramedic who looked after me all those years before, the only person in the house to see a mother before a murderer. So I applied. Even with my two science A-levels, I knew I wasn’t a standard applicant, so I put everything into my personal statement. Sometimes I’m still amazed that it actually worked.

  With only the smallest hint of some not quite dormant craving, I pour the rest of the wine down the sink and drop the bottle into the recycling bag. There’s no way the wine will be drinkable when I get back anyway. I walk the four steps to my bedroom door and pull the small suitcase from inside the wardrobe, bought last weekend specially for this occasion. Tiredness is starting to weigh me down now, which is a good thing because it stops me worrying too much about what to pack; or dwelling on what will happen when I get there. I throw in some T-shirts and shorts, a couple of long skirts and a cardigan. After a moment’s hesitation, a swimming costume too. When I’m done, I take a quick shower to wash off the South London grime, set my alarm for 5 a.m., and crawl under my duvet.

  *

  The blast of warm air feels alien but not unpleasant as I step off the aeroplane and into the midday Mediterranean heat. I take a deep breath and let the scent of Greece permeate through my pores. It feels good to be back here, in Crete, where I can still remember Charlie looking in wonder at the blueness of the sea, and where those few precious weeks of new life grew inside me. I know my emotions will run high on this holiday, but I feel strong enough to cope with them now. To enjoy the memories rather than dwell on what I lost. But perhaps I’m not as ready as I think becaus
e as I turn towards the stairs, I stumble slightly. An arm reaches out to steady me.

  ‘You okay?’

  I look down at my son’s hand, now holding on to my arm, and it takes me back to that bus journey, on the day that I found him. I was so elated to see him back then that I chose not to notice his disgust at the thought of touching me. His desperation to create some distance between us. It’s taken some time, but things are very different now, and I have Lucy to thank for that. She made me a promise on that cold day in the park to give Charlie the letters I had written throughout my time in prison, and the rest would be up to him. All I could do was hope that those messages of love, of hope for some kind of future together, would be enough.

  It wasn’t until April that I heard from him, and that was just a text asking if we could meet. I suggested Battersea Park and we sat together on my nana’s favourite bench staring at the roses, watching new life form. We weren’t there for long, but some silent agreement passed between us: we were going to try. Over time short coffees became longer lunches, and awkward small talk turned into proper conversations. And before we knew it, we had built something. A relationship strong enough to take a trip together, to create new memories on the foundations of old.

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ I answer as we walk down the metal steps together, the gentle breeze having a cooling effect on my mind as well as my body. I steal a look at his languid frame, the relaxed expression on his face and the optimism in his eyes. And with a heady surge of joy, I realise something wonderful.

  At last, he’s fine too.

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  Acknowledgements

  When I started my research for A Mother Never Lies, I was amazed and humbled by the willingness of people to give their time and expertise to a debut author. Thank you Hugh Constant and Susan Ellery for explaining adoption processes, and to Richard for sharing your unique insight. Thank you Malcolm Partridge, for your advice on criminal law – the glaring error of a fourteen-year minimum custodial sentence for murder rather than the correct fifteen years is all mine. Thank you Dr Harriet Tucker for your medical expertise, and Dr Julia Yates for your help with my psychotherapy chapters – as well as your unwavering friendship and support. Thank you also to the team at HQ Digital and especially my editor, Dushiyanthi Horti, for your thoughtful comments – the book is much improved for your input.

  Writing a debut novel is a challenging journey. Thank you Faber Academy, and especially my tutor Julia Crouch, for making me a better writer. Thank you Sophie Hannah, your Dream Author programme is inspiring. Thank you Katie Lowe for making me believe it possible, Kitty Walker for your editing skills, and Jane Casey for your invaluable advice and generosity with your time. I have so many friends who supported me, but thank you particularly Bex, Mirella, Jo, Selina, Judy and Hannah for your kind words and constant encouragement. And to my chuffing bats crew, I salute you.

  And finally a huge thank you to my family. To my dad who read every draft and my mum who made the whole venture possible. To Scarlett, who is wise and thoughtful beyond her years, and Finn for his contagious good humour. And finally to Chris, who travelled every step by my side.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for putting aside a few hours of your time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed discovering the truth behind Phoebe’s actions and why she was compelled to give Charlie away.

  I have found that Phoebe divides opinion, and I would love to know what you think of her. Is she deserving of our sympathy after the terrible trauma – and subsequent loss – that she suffered? Or is she selfish, violent and unwilling to put the welfare of her child first? Is there a way that she can be all of these things?

  You can reach me by email at sarah@sarahclarkeauthor.com or via social media. I am on Twitter as @SCWwriter, and on Facebook and Instagram as @sarahclarkewriter.

  This book began as a private affair between my characters and me, and now I am asking the whole world to read the story. A scary prospect in many ways! If you enjoyed A Mother Never Lies I would be hugely grateful if you could spare a few moments to review it.

  You can also follow my publisher @HQstories for lots of book news and great giveaways.

  Happy reading,

  Sarah

  Dear Reader,

  We hope you enjoyed reading this book. If you did, we’d be so appreciative if you left a review. It really helps us and the author to bring more books like this to you.

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