by Sarah Till
'Go inside and see to the kids, Sarah. I'll handle this.'
'But who is she? She says she's your mother.'
He stares at me. I look deep into his eyes and I see that he knows me. There's no mistake. Even after all these years of telling people I'm dead, he still recognises me. At the same time, I remember my despair over unanswered questions. Here's another one right now, to add to the rest; why is he treating me like this? What have I done? That's two questions, as Jer would say. He stares, I stare, Sarah looks at us both. Tommy appears on the stairs, and shouts.
'Daddy. Who come to door? Who is it?'
I look past Andrew at Tommy, and his cute little face. I take the plaque out of the bag, and the hat, and give them to Sarah.
'For Tommy. And the baby.'
'Brianny.' She whispers. She's looking at my eyes and I wonder if she sees Andrew in me.
I hold out my hand.
'It's not too late, Andrew. We can sort this out. Make things right. I just want to know my grandchildren.'
He stares past me, then looks around at Sarah.
'I've no idea who this is. I've never seen this woman before in my life.'
His words burn through me and I feel a pain that is stronger than anything I have ever felt before. The door slams shut on my hands as I grip onto the door frame, and blood trickles from the deep grazes. I move them slowly and stare at them and he's standing in front of me. He slams the door again, and this time it shuts tight. I see their shapes go upstairs with the little bundle of Tommy. I sit down on the step. My whole being is drained, and from somewhere inside me, I dredge up the positive. A least I'd seen him. He's alive and well, married to Sarah, who seemed nice, and Tommy. So beautiful. At least I had seen him.
I'm too tired to make a move, so I stay on the step for a while. I had no idea if the buses ran back to Tintagel at this time of night. I had fantasised that there would be a much better outcome and neglected a plan B. I had somehow imagined that they would just let me into their home, after all this time. Of course, some of this was my fault, because if I had made an effort in the first place I might have stood more of a chance. A little whisper somewhere inside me tells me he stole my inheritance and flooded my house and made sure I had no way to put it right. Everything that has stemmed from that has contributed to what I have become today. Julia, Alice, the police, everything. I retaliate with the notion that I should have come back from Manchester when I said I would. The whisper tells me it would have made no difference, he had still turned the taps on and destroyed your life.
I sat there for about an hour nursing my bloody hands and feet, and then finally I heard the door click open behind me. He stood above me and I twisted to see him.
'I'm going to give you one chance to leave. If you don't go, I'm going to call the police.'
I stand up.
'Why, Andrew? Why? I've come here to ask you about Grandma's paint box and why Uncle John wanted...'
He lights a cigarette.
'Look at the state of you.'
I sigh.
'OK. But I haven't always been like this, have I? Not when we first came here?'
'No. But you were always strange. Like there was something missing. And I don't want you around me. OK? Or my children. I don't want you here. Go away. Have I made myself clear? Fuck off. And don't contact me again. Right?'
I nod then sit back down on the step.
'I've told you. Go, or I'll call the police.'
'I just need to rest. I've walked a long way and my feet are bleeding.'
He tuts and shakes his head slowly.
'No one asked you to come here. Just go.'
I thought he was going to say Mum for a minute, but then I finally realised. I was dead to him. Not dead and buried, but gone, long ago, into another part of his life. This was a different life I'd wandered into. He shuts the door and I wait longer, hoping that he'll come back. He doesn't come back and, through the darkness, I see the blue light before I hear the siren.
I get up and run to the front of the house. Andrew is standing in the front bedroom bay window holding Tommy, and Sarah is standing behind them holding Brianny. His stare is cold and I know now why I didn't come before. It was the same stare as when his father died, when he said I was inconsequential and when he told his friend I was the cleaner.
'I'm your mother. How could you do this to me? How could you let me live like this without helping me? Andrew? I gave birth to you. I fed you and took you to school. Holidays and visits to the library, endless stories, painting. I think about you all the time. Please Andrew. Please. I need help. Someone's trying to kill me, Andrew. Please.'
Some neighbours had come outside to stand on their lawns now. I'm aware that I'm embarrassing him, but I'm desperate. I need to know the answers before I leave for good. But it's too late. The car screeched to a halt outside the house and I thought it was a little bit dramatic. I stood dwarfed by three policemen.
'Causing a nuisance here, love?'
I still couldn't do it. I still couldn't just get into the police car.
'He's my son.'
I point up at the window and all four of us look up at the scared faces.
'I don't care if he's Father Christmas, love, he's called us out to get you off his property. Get in the car.'
I walk towards the car but turn for a final look. My family. For the last time, I expect. There's a dull pain in my stomach and I'm sure my heart is breaking. Even thought is warm, I can feel the front of my forehead freeze and my mind numb out with pain. I'm dizzy and disorientated and I just want to scream. But I don't. The policemen's faces are blank, harsh; they don't know what's going on here. How could they? I strain to see my family. I duck into the car and see them walk away back into the hazy glow of their lives away from me. Tommy and Brianny probably have a grandma already. She probably dotes on them and looks after them at weekends. I could hardly bring them to the shed, could I?
'What happened to your feet, love? And your hands?'
The policeman sitting next to me is writing something in his notebook.
'My shoes. They cut my feet. And my hands got grazed on the door when he slammed it. My son.'
'Right. What's your name?'
'Elizabeth Nelson.'
'Date of birth?'
'Twenty fifth of May. 1961.'
'That's today, isn't it?'
I stare out of the window at Andrew's lovely house. His lovely car. His lovely life. I've even forgotten my own birthday.
'Is it?' The policeman sighs and speaks into his radio. 'Can we go now?'
'My colleague is just getting a statement from Mr Nelson. Is he any relation?'
'Like I said. He's my son.'
'Right love. But he says he doesn't know you. Anyway, what's your address? Do you have one?'
'Coombes Cottage. Tintagel.'
The radio crackles away and he waits for a response. My birthday. I wonder how old I will be? I don't even know what year it is. I keep track of the days, because I need to know what day to go to the job centre. In the summer it's easy to see hen it's weekend because there are more tourists. Sunday is easy because of the Church Bells. And I know when roughly a year has gone by because Jerusalem turns up every summer. Then there's the sunflowers. They let me know how tall the year is by climbing up the wall of the house; when the seeds come and the heads shrivel, I know it's time to stay in the shed because the cold is coming. Time. To me, it's like yesterday that I moved into the house. It's like last week I lived in Manchester. But it must be years. All the conversations with Jer, they must have taken years. He's been patient, I'll give him that. Yet I still feel like I'm fifteen again, sometimes.
The front door opens and the other officer comes out, shaking Andrew's hand. He gets into the front of the car and half turns around.
'Anything, Sam?'
Sam huffs a little.
'Yeah. Mrs Nelson here has a theft waiting to be heard. She lives at Coombes cottage in Tintagel and she signs on at Pads
tow.'
'Nelson? He says he doesn't know you.'
I stare out of the window as the car backs out of Andrew's road. As we back up and drive past Andrew's house again, I see Sarah standing at the bedroom window holding a sign that says 'Help.'
'Stop. Stop the car.' The car jumps to a stop and I grab the officer’s arm. 'Look. Look up there. Sarah is holding up a sign. Look.'
'Yeah. She's probably asking for help to get you away from her, love. I can't see that much is wrong there. Except for this little incident.'
They start the journey and I shrink back into the seat. Help. Something is wrong there, something to do with Andrew. All I can do is take in the house and the cars and the golden glow, because I'll never see them again. Even though I know this, I flicker back to the gift shop in the village, my mind's eye going over the plaques. Brianny. What a strange name for a little girl. I don't recall ever seeing a plaque with that name on it. I would have thought a Victoria or a Melanie, but not Brianny. I'd heard people in the village shout, 'Brittney and even 'Princess' and seen little girls wearing t-shirts with these names on them. But Brianny.
We're on the main road now, and the police car glides along quietly. My birthday. I'd never been one for dates and anniversaries. Well, I had once, long ago, when I still believed that the world was a good place. When I first married Stan, I would daydream about Valentine’s Day and our wedding anniversary, days just for us when we could exchange gifts. When we had been going out he had bought me chocolates, always Milk Tray, and sometimes he bought me sweets when we went to the pictures. Of course, he presented me with an engagement ring when he proposed. It was all very proper, with him asking my Dad if he could marry me. Dad had been blind drunk at the time slurring something about knights and unfaithfulness and telling him to watch me because I was trouble.
After we married all this stopped. On his part, anyway. For the first few years I persisted with heart shaped objects and items that I hoped conveyed my devotion, but he just stopped. I don't think he really ever loved me. I don't think we loved each other. Maybe at first, but then it mellowed into something just bearable. He certainly never remembered my birthday. I would make birthday cards with Andrew when he was a toddler, and proudly stand them on the dark wood mantelpiece, as if he had sent them to me. I reminded him for a while and he would, after several nudges, appear with a hastily made card. But that was fine. It was the only one I got. So it was fine. As he entered his teens, he never got me a card. Not once. So, I suppose no one has remembered my birthday for over twenty years.
I begin to laugh, and in the small, cramped car, it sounds loud and crass. Sam looks at me and shakes his head.
'We're taking you in love, so we can give you a look over. We've got a welfare officer who can sort you out. I'm afraid that young man back there wants to press charges. He says he doesn't know you and that you tried to get into his house. Something about his children?'
I nod.
'Yes. I did. I tried to see his children. And him.'
'So you admit it? There's not going to be any trouble at the station is there? No kicking off and suchlike?'
I snort.
'Of course I admit it. He's my son. Those are my grandchildren.'
The police man stares hard at me.
'We'll have to check this out, Mrs Nelson. He didn't strike me as the lying kind.'
I smile.
'Didn't he? Was that because he lives in a lovely house, and is clean and tidy? Whereas I'm not so clean and tidy? I'm his mother. I know him better than anyone.'
CHAPTER 16
Bodmin police station turns out to be totally different to Camelford police station. For a start, it's brighter and starker. I sit in an interrogation room and have a strong feeling that there won't be a cheery Cheryl here. Sam and the other policemen come in and two of them sit down.
'Right love. We've had a bit of a check-up and it seems that you've entered a not guilty on the theft charge. And some others pending. Looks like a Crown job. But you're admitting this, are you?'
I nod.
'Right. What happened?'
'Well, I went to see my son, Andrew, and his children. And his wife.'
He nodded.
'When did you last see him?'
'A while ago. More than five years, I think.'
'So there's a chance he might not have recognised you? Have you, erm, changed significantly in that time?'
'A bit. But he knew it was me, all right.'
Another policeman comes in and hands some printouts to Sam. He reads through them and looks at me.
'Right, Lizzie. It seems that Andrew Nelson is your son and that there's some previous between you two. Didn't you have him arrested some time ago in Manchester?'
I nod. I'd completely forgotten about that. The time after Stan died that he locked me out of the house refused to let anyone in. Even back then he was claiming I wasn’t his mother.
'So any reason, apart from not recognising you, that he might think you're not his mother?'
I shake my head.
'Not that I know. He's always been a bit funny. But I just wanted to see my grandchildren.'
Sam coughs.
'Yes. Well, he's still saying he has no idea who you are. And I'm afraid he wants to press charges. What with that, and the theft charge, we're wondering if something isn't going slightly wrong here, Lizzie.'
I look at them, their faces fat and ruddy.
'There is something going wrong. Julia wants me out of the village and Andrew doesn't want to acknowledge that I'm his mother. That's what's wrong.'
I want to add that I have a stack of notes with 'Kill You Next Time'. And, one by one, my animal friends are being killed off and left on my doorstep. That I'm scared to death of even going outside or sleeping in case someone finds out about my Top Secret. Sam sighs.
'Can you think of any reason why people are acting this way towards you? Anything at all?'
I look at my feet, my ragged toenails filled up with dry blood. The skin on my legs is peeling, and the skirt crumpled. I've dropped my carrier bags at the side of the white table, and they have fallen under the white chair, spreading like a dirty plastic wave across the immaculate room.
'Well, it's obvious, isn't it? It' because they don't like how I look. Julia, anyway. Andrew, well, who bloody knows. I don't. They don't want people like me around them.'
Sam smiles.
'So you kick up a fuss?'
'No, and I didn't steal her purse, either. I did get annoyed at Andrew's because he denied me. I need to speak to him about something important. But I didn't mean any harm. I just put my foot in the door to stop her shutting me out for good. I'll never see those children again, you know.'
They all stared at me. Sam shrugs his shoulders.
'All right Lizzie. Lizzie Nelson, I'm arresting you on suspicion of public disorder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence, if you do not mention when questioned, something which you will later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the caution? Do you have anything to say?'
I shake my head. Two arrests in a week. Like buses, I think, no arrests for all my life then two come along at once. I laugh, and the policemen obviously think I'm laughing at the situation. Sam tuts.
'Lizzie, this is serious. You're appearing in court on two different charges. Maybe more. It's not funny at all. You could end up in jail if you carry on like this. We don't want that to happen. So we're going to keep you here overnight and then tomorrow decide exactly what to do with you. You might get away with this one, but if you go around threatening people and stealing, likely we'll see you again. Anyway, PC Lewes will be here in a moment, she's out welfare and family officer, you can have a chat with her.'
I nod.
'Thank you, I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at this. I was just thinking how strange it is for me to be here.'
They leave me in the white room for another twenty minutes, then PC Lewes comes
in.
'Hello, Lizzie.'
She's carrying a couple of towels and some soap in one hand and a plastic cup with a toothbrush in another hand.
'Hello.'
'I'm Joanne. I'm the family liaison officer here, and the welfare officer. Is there anyone we can contact for you, dear? Any family? It's a bit late to be sending you out now, so we're going to keep you here. OK?'
I nod
'No. There’s no one.'
She opens my file and starts to read. I see Andrew's hand writing on the bottom of the statements, the loop of the 'l' on 'Nelson'. We'd worked so hard on that. Days and days of sitting at the kitchen table, practising his joined-up hand. She reads it quickly then shuts it.
'So Lizzie. How have you ended up living like this?'
I smile at her.
'Like what?'
'Well, you know. We know you don't live on the streets, you own a house in Tintagel, where you live. We also know that you sign on every week in Padstow. So you're not destitute.'
'Or a vagrant. Don't worry. Julia Scholes has already tried that one. I went to the library to read up on it. I'm not a vagrant.'
She leans over the table.
'No. Not a vagrant, Lizzie. But you must know that your appearance is, well, it's hard to say without insulting you.'
'Bag lady is the term you are looking for. Bag. Lady.'
My mouth forms around the words, and I quite like them. They give me a sense of being someone, for now. I know it can change at any time, from Andrew's mother, to John's sister, to Tommy's grandmother, to Jer's lover, but right now it settled on me. She opens the file again and writes something.
'OK. Bag Lady. So you do know what is going on here?'
I nod.
'Yes. Most of the time. Of course, there are a few things I lose track of, but who wouldn't? I'm not getting any younger.'
'But you're not that old, either, Lizzie. Are you eating OK?'
I smile.
'Oh yes. I grow my own veg in the summer. And I get things from the supermarket.'
I was going to add 'skip' but I didn't want to scare her too much.
'And your periods? Still having them?'
