Are You My Mother?

by Louise Voss

‘Suzanne! That’s not very constructive, or polite.’ Denise began to cut up a chipolata, which she put on a clean side plate for her son.

  Trying to diffuse the momentary tension, I turned to Suzanne. ‘So, remind me what the age gap between you and Ben is? There’s nearly ten years between me and Stella. It’s weird remembering that it used to be like that, Stella spitting out her food and having tantrums; and now look at us….nothing’s changed!’

  Stella reached over and pretended to slap me. She seemed happy; pink-cheeked and pretty, with her paper hat listing lopsidedly over her face.

  Suzanne looked at her little brother with a mixture of irritation and affection. ‘Well, there’s fifteen years between us. I can’t quite visualise you and me ever sharing a flat together, Bence, can you?’

  ‘No. I can’t,’ said Ben with dignity. ‘Can I have some ketchup with my sausages?’

  ‘No,’ chorussed Greg, Denise and Suzanne. Ben stuck out his lower lip but kept eating.

  ‘Are you two real sisters then, or do you only have one parent in common? You look about as alike as Suzanne and Ben.’ Greg was scrutinising us in turn.

  ‘We’re real sisters,’ said Stella.

  Suzanne, who already knew that I was adopted - and that my best friend used, allegedly, to be a gorilla - kept her mouth shut, but raised her eyebrows at Stella when she thought nobody else was looking. Stella took a forkful of gravy-sodden roast potato, and made a face back at her. I just grinned into my turkey and didn’t disagree.

  After lunch and a walk, Ben conked out on the sofa, exhausted – ‘He’s been up since five o’clock,’ said Denise. Suzanne spirited Stella away upstairs, ostensibly to get her advice on whether to use chiffon or silk for next term’s college project, and Greg and Denise, refusing all offers of help clearing up, vanished into the kitchen.

  I was left on my own in an armchair in front of the fire; contented, tipsy, and very, very full. Nonetheless, my hand kept snaking its way automatically into the colossal tin of Quality Streets next to me. I lay back, savouring the mingled tastes of toffee and chocolate melting on my tongue, and watched Ben sleep. His small face was lit up warm by the flickering orange flames, his mouth open and his lashes spiky on his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing was so peculiarly hypnotic that, within just a few minutes, my own eyelids had sunk closed, and I joined him in a melted-chocolate, holly-decorated sleep.

  Chapter 26

  For a split second, when I jerked awake again, I had the strangest sensation of having been whirled back in time. There was the sound of a child singing Ba-Ba Black Sheep, off-key. Adults chatting in the background; a giggle and a clink of glasses. Christmas carols swelling from the television set, soft choral melodies clashing with the tuneless nursery rhyme; and a blur of lights and twinkling ornaments from the tree in the corner. Delicious smells of pine, burning firewood, and roast turkey were wafting around the room, and it was already dark outside. The fire was dying down, and the lights were on low.

  ‘Oh God,’ I thought with a start. ‘This is not my family.’ I sat up hastily, scattering the Quality Street wrappers which I had left shamefully strewn on my lap, and wiped away the seepage of dribble which was running down my chin. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I’d probably been snoring too.

  Ben popped up next to me. ‘Hello Emma. It’s me, Benjamin Louis Hiscock. Will you read to me?’

  ‘Sure, Ben. Why don’t you go and get a book?’

  Denise appeared. ‘Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes. Did you have a nice nap?’

  ‘I did, actually. But sorry, it was so rude of me, to crash out like that –‘

  ‘Oh, not at all. I’m delighted that you feel comfortable enough here to fall asleep – besides, we’ve had a bit of a kip, too. Would you like a cup of tea and some Christmas cake? The girls are still upstairs. They’re allegedly working, but they think I don’t know that they’re smoking out of the window and listening to rap CDs.’

  I laughed. ‘I’d love some tea, thanks.’ It was so wonderful to be looked after, waited on like this. To be brought cups of tea and cake, and fed nice meals. I hoped fervently that this is what it would be like when I found Ann Paramor: a chance to catch up on all the mothering arrears. The idea of somebody else, for example, doing my washing for me, was as tempting as a free weekend at a health spa.

  Ben returned, climbed onto my lap, and plonked down a Spot the Dog book. I instinctively put one arm around him and began to read it aloud, not taking in the words at all, just relishing the long-dormant sensation of warm attentive child. Now that I thought about it, it was odd, I mused: whenever I started to yearn for the sensation of being mothered, I always seemed to do something which put me in the role of a mother myself. When I thought about Ann Paramor, for example, I would then, more often than not, find myself going through Stella’s sock drawer and matching up her odd socks; or baking a cake; or having a sudden strong urge to ring her and check that she was dressed warmly enough. How sad was that?

  I desperately hoped that finding Ann Paramor - whatever the result - would nip that particular behavioural tic in the bud. Or rather, deadhead it altogether. No wonder I cramped Stella’s style at times.

  ‘More,’ demanded Ben when I’d finished, sliding off my lap and over to a low bookshelf. ‘I get anozzer one.’

  Almost before his sticky hand landed on the book’s spine, I knew what it was. That sky-blue and red cover, the familiar little bird sitting on the lugubrious dog’s head. ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, leaping up and practically grabbing it out of his hands. ‘Are You My Mother? I love this book!’

  Denise came in with a mug of tea and a slice of rich, black Christmas cake, which she set down on the floor next to my armchair. ‘Yes, it’s a fabulous book, isn’t it? Bence loves it – and it’s one of only a few that I actually still enjoy reading to him.’

  ‘I used to read it to Stella when she was younger than Ben.’ I felt excited, like being reunited with a long-lost friend. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s get stuck in.’

  Ben obligingly climbed back up again, and I turned to the first page, smiling with glee as I saw all the little details of the story I’d forgotten: the mother bird’s red and white checked headscarf, the way she straddled her skinny bird legs over the enormous egg, the look of immense self-satisfaction on her face as she waited for it to hatch.

  I read on, almost forgetting that Denise, not Mum, had brought me tea and cake; almost forgetting that Ben wasn’t Stella aged three. By the time the baby bird had asked the kitten, the hen, the dog and cow if any of them were his mother, the pathos of the story had reached down the years and twined a noose of nostalgic sadness around my throat, threatening to choke me. He was so lost and alone, and I already knew he was so desperate to find out who his mother was, that he would soon start asking rusty old cars, boats and aeroplanes. I looked around the room, half-expecting to see him sitting on top of the Christmas tree or hopping over the hearth, but the room was the same as before.

  I had to stop for a minute.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ben.

  ‘“I did have a mother,” said the baby bird. “I know I did. I have to find her. I will. I WILL!”’ Tears welled in my eyes, making the words blur and dance on the page. Even though I knew the book had a happy ending, when I got to the bit where the bird looked up into the sky, saw an enormous jumbo jet and called out, “Here I am, Mother,” my voice was wobbling so much that I could barely continue. By the final page, I was all but sobbing out each word, and tears were rolling unrestrained down my face and on to the top of Ben’s silky head.

  When I looked up, Stella, Suzanne, Denise and Greg were standing staring at me, concerned and embarrassed. Stella leaped forward, kneeling down and putting both her hands on the fatly upholstered arm of the chair. ‘Em! What’s the matter?’

  I took off my glasses and wiped my eyes. Then I replaced them, and gently slid Ben off my lap. Ben’s eyes were as big and saucery as Jessie the doll’s.

  ‘Can I talk to you outside please
, Stella?’

  The temperature had dropped dramatically since darkness fell. Frost already glittered on the tree branches and the droopy nylon strings of a lopsided rotary washing line. Beyond the garden fence was nothing but a black expanse of fields, which the moon was still too low in the sky to illuminate. The clouds had dispersed, though, and stars already dotted the blackness above their heads. It was eerily silent.

  Denise opened the back door and came out, carrying our coats, two cups of tea, and a tissue for me, which she distributed wordlessly, before patting my arm, and going back inside again.

  ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ said Stella wistfully, zipping up her coat and lighting a cigarette, almost simultaneously.

  I nodded and sniffed and blew my nose. ‘Stell,’ I began, sitting down on a step which led to the lawn. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, and please, please believe me when I say that I will never, ever let it jeopardise our relationship.’

  I told Stella everything; from finding Ann’s original letter and getting her surname from the tweedy-voiced librarian, to Mack printing off the list for me, and my intention of checking out each Ann Paramor individually, starting with our unsuccessful ‘stakeout’ in Harlesden. Stella listened and smoked, her breath showing in thick nicotiney plumes contrasting with my chaotic cloudy breath, which spilled out like my words into the frosty air. Our tea got cold, and our gloveless fingers colder, but neither of us really noticed.

  ‘You’ve no idea how much I really wanted to tell you, but I was afraid it would upset you too much, especially after all that Charlie stuff. I’m so sorry, Stell. I can’t stand it when we have secrets from each other.’

  Stella stared at the sky, exhaling a final drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out on the step and flicking the dog end into the bushes. I bit my lip and managed not to upbraid her for it. She plunged her hands into the pockets of her puffy jacket, and sank her chin deep into its collar.

  ‘So why now?’

  I wriggled over on the cold concrete step and slid my arm around her.

  ‘You’re grown up now. You’ve got your own life, and you’re starting a career. You don’t need me so much anymore. It was meeting that homeless guy on the tube which suddenly got me thinking about it; how at some point people have to take decisions which change their lives one way or another. I just want to do something for myself for once, and I suppose I want some answers, really. I’ve been a bit, well, down I suppose, especially after Gavin dumped me…. I don’t for a minute think that Ann Paramor could be a substitute for Mum, though,’ I added hastily.

  But even as I said it, I realised that it wasn’t entirely true. Whilst I didn’t think that Ann Paramor would turn out to be another Barbara, or maybe – and I hesitated to even think it – better than Barbara, I couldn’t suppress a deep-seated yearning that she might. Despite all the literature I’d read and all Mack’s advice, it would have been so completely wonderful to have a real mother again. I imagined being hugged by plump, perfumed, mummyish arms, and felt my heart constrict with guilty longing.

  The back door opened again and Suzanne came out. ‘Mum says she’s made mulled wine and why don’t you two come in and have some, before you die of hypothermia?’

  ‘Two minutes, Suze,’ said Stella. ‘We’ll be right in.’

  Suzanne retreated back into the cottage, and all was quiet again. An owl hooted in the distance and Stella gripped my forearm. ‘Was that an owl? I’ve never heard one before.’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, I suppose it must be. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard one, either.’ I looked at Stella, who was staring straight ahead again. ‘Are you OK about this, then? It’s really important to me.’

  Stella looked at the sky, and I wondered what she was thinking.

  Was she, like me, remembering the blank unfeeling swell of that motorway verge? Her shredded patchwork quilt? Thinking of how I’d comforted her at night, listened to her problems, had always been there for her? If our positions were reversed, I knew without a doubt that the idea of Stella finding a whole new family would have sent a spear of jealousy stabbing through me, so deep that blood would have oozed across the front of my jacket. It was intolerable, unthinkable. But that’s what I was asking her to understand.

  ‘You know when Charlie… you know,’ she began. I nodded, holding my breath. ‘I missed Mum then, more than I ever have done since she died. I missed her so much that I woke up crying for a week after. I haven’t thought about her so much for years. It’s just not fucking fair, is it? Most people have parents who stick around for decades, become grandparents, get old, and even if they get irritating and incontinent and moaned about, at least they’re still on the scene. Ours didn’t even live to see me pass my eleven plus, let alone see me get into college. Even Linda McCartney saw Stella do her first Chloe show. Mum will never know what I’m going to achieve, or what you’ll achieve. It’s not fair!’

  I listened in silence, too choked to speak, tears dripping down my cheeks again, cold on my face. Stella’s eyes were dry, but her breathing was ragged and every muscle in her body tense with sorrow. My first thought was that I obviously hadn’t been good enough for her after the attack. I had let her down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘What for?’‘It feels like my fault, that you were crying for Mum after Charlie attacked you.’

  Stella turned, astonished. ‘Why?’

  I was sobbing now. ‘Because, because, I’ve tried to be your mother, ever since Mum died. I’ve tried to be Mum and Dad to you, to make it up to you because they were taken away from you so young. I feel like I’ve failed you.’

  She turned to me, pulling her hands out of her pockets and clasping my frozen ones.

  ‘Emma, you idiot. I don’t want you to be my bloody mother! I never have done! God, did you really think that? It drives me mad when you cluck over me. That was why I was so over the moon when you started taking me to parties with you - I thought, finally, you were beginning to treat me like a sister at last, a mate, and not some little baby to fuss over. In fact, I’ve been feeling guilty for years too, that you didn’t take your university place because of me. I feel like I’ve fucked up your life. So of course you should look for your real mother - I’ve always wondered why you didn’t do it sooner. You deserve all the happiness you can get, Em. Of course I’m OK about it - as long as you promise not to vanish off the face of the earth and never speak to me again.’

  ‘As if,’ I blubbed.

  ‘I’ll help you look for her too, if you like.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said thickly, blowing my nose and taking a slurp of tepid tea. ‘Well, you’ve always wanted to be on TV, haven’t you? This could be your chance - Mack’s filming me for a documentary he’s been commissioned to make for the BBC. You can be in it too.’

  ‘Really? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that,’ she said, instantly perking up. ‘Bagsy be the stylist, though. We’ll both have to wear my designs. It could be my big break!’

  I laughed, and we hugged, pressing our cold cheeks together, instinctively slotting our arms and heads into the right places, from years of practice.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 27

  An icy February wind blasted down the steps of Olympia tube station as Mack, Katrina, Stella and I emerged. Katrina was the girl Mack sometimes used as his sound tech, and she trailed behind us carrying a boom microphone and wearing headphones. It was making Stella feel extremely self-important and, I had to admit, it did give the whole outfit a lot more of a professional appearance than when Mack did it all himself with radio mikes. Katrina’s ears must have been lovely and warm, I thought enviously. My own were numb.

  Mack hung back to film some small, artily-swirling pieces of charred paper as they blew in a teasing spiral towards our faces and made us jump.

  ‘Check out old Roman Polanski back there,’ said Stella, nudging me.

  ‘Guy Ritchie, if you don’t mind,’ replied Mack, panning slowly up the steps after us.


  ‘I don’t think so,’ Stella said scornfully. ‘Does Emma hang out with many gangsters?’

  ‘Not since she split up with Gavin, anyway,’ Mack ventured, fiddling with the zoom on his camera, probably reframing from a long shot to a tight close-up to capture my reaction to his jibe. I was learning more than I thought I even wanted to know about crash zooms, medium close-ups, and logging rushes.

  ‘Bastard,’ I shot at him. Hardly sparkling repartee, but at least if I swore he’d have to edit out the entire exchange.

  As undeniably terrified as I felt at the thought that I might be about to meet my mother, there were elements to the filming process I was really beginning to enjoy; the creativity of it, and the feeling that we were all in it together as a team. It was great, having Stella involved too. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done anything together like this.

  ‘How’re you doing, Em?’ Stella asked, sensing my mingled trepidation and excitement. She linked arms with me, briefly leaning her head on my shoulder as we walked up the stairs, the boom mike wobbling over our heads like a small furry angel.

  ‘Nervous. But I’ll be fine. Look out for signs, the map says it’s right next to the tube.’

  ‘It is - look.’ Stella pointed at a sign indicating that the entrance of the Exhibition Centre was around the corner. ‘Ten pounds?’ she screeched as we came in sight of the main doors, noticing the admission fee prominently displayed. ‘Daylight robbery, if you ask me. And that’s before you’ve bought any of their crap crystals or paid to have your chakras fondled, or whatever the hell it is they do in there. Pay for me, Em, would you? I won’t be able to afford lunch otherwise.’

  I rolled my eyes, but was about to pull out my wallet anyway when Mack stopped me.

  ‘Don’t, Emma, the BBC can get this. I’ll expense it.’

  ‘Are you sure? Comparative to what I might have paid for a private detective, it’s not all that much.’