The Good Mother

by Karen Osman

  ‘It’s no problem, dear. I have two young granddaughters so I know what it’s like! You look exhausted, would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to put the kettle on to give this rain a chance to ease off a bit.’

  Cold, wet and desperate for a hot drink, Kate could have wept at the simple kindness.

  ‘Thank you very much but I best get this doll back before World War III breaks out. I’ve left both my daughters with my husband so goodness knows what I’ll get back to,’ she joked.

  ‘All right pet,’ said the postmistress, whose nametag read ‘Margaret’. Around fifty-five years old, with her trim figure and well-fitted navy-blue cardigan, Margaret reminded Kate of her own mother. ‘Take care getting home now. This downpour looks torrential to me.’

  Kate grimaced as she looked through the window.

  Peering over her metal-frame glasses, Margaret’s eyes met hers.

  ‘Are you OK, dear?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ smiled Kate. ‘Just gearing myself up for the weather!’

  Margaret gave her a knowing look. Patting her arm, she said, ‘It does get easier, pet, I promise.’

  In that moment, all Kate wanted to do was to stay in the warmth of the post office and soak up the comforting reassurance of the older woman; to be told that everything was going to be all right: her children, her marriage, her finances, her life.

  *

  Kate ran a bath for the girls – and Mary-Beth – and as a special exception, decided she would let them watch TV for half an hour before bed. Normally, TV was for weekends or when they were ill, but she needed a little time to get ready. She didn’t normally bother with make-up but she was sure she had some mascara and foundation in one of her drawers, and there was some lip-gloss in the bottom of her handbag, which she could use. Her jeans were a few years old and slightly dated but she had a top that she had bought two years ago and hadn’t yet worn, meaning it was unlikely to be covered in spaghetti hoop stains. Hurrying the girls, she got them into bed and by seven o’clock she was dressed and ready to leave.

  *

  Practically running, Kate suppressed her resentment at not being able to afford a car. It was pouring with rain and her umbrella was fighting a losing battle against the elements. She was late because her husband had missed the train and was in a foul mood because of it. Claiming he’d had to deal with a last-minute difficult customer, she had made no comment about the beer on his breath as she said goodbye. He’d obviously had the time to stop off at the pub for a quick one on the way home, she thought, annoyed. It rankled that she had asked him to be on time that evening and he didn’t respect her enough to do even that. Quickening her pace, she finally entered the community college gates. The flyer had stated classroom 2A but as she went through the corridors, she struggled to find it. The place was deserted and she wondered how many people would turn up to an evening class on a night like this, when it would be so much more preferable to stay at home, warm and dry. All of sudden, she was nervous. What was she thinking? It was years since she had done anything even remotely academic. She had given all that up several years ago for marriage and children – a different life altogether. She bargained with herself: if she didn’t find the class in the next five minutes, she was going to walk back home. As she turned the corner, she saw a group of five or six people heading into a classroom. That must be it, she thought. Checking the sign outside the classroom door, Kate followed them inside, and gratefully took a seat at the back. Looking around her, she saw it was a mixed bag of students. Most of them were older than she, most likely reaching retirement age and looking for a new hobby. In fact, Kate seemed to be the youngest in the class. Once again, she wondered if she was just wasting her time.

  *

  Glancing up at the clock Kate saw that two hours had passed already. Then, taking a moment, she realised her shoulders were relaxed. Her body, so used to constant movement, had settled into itself, unfurling as the rhythmic strokes of her pen glided across the paper. For the first time in a long while, she was using her mind for something other than shopping lists and scheduling play dates. It was a strange but not unwelcome feeling.

  Absorbed in her own thoughts, she didn’t hear Mr Barnes the first time. Afterwards, she wondered how many times he had had to say her name before she realised he was talking to her.

  ‘How did you find the class?’ he asked. He was standing in front of her desk.

  Kate looked up and got a closer look at the teacher. He was slightly younger than she was and she guessed him to be in his early twenties. His self-assurance was casually worn, reflecting a life of few hardships. Although he looked forbidding, in black jeans and a black leather jacket, this was offset by an amiable charm. She hadn’t paid too much attention when he had first walked in. In fact, she had thought he was one of the students at first, as he was so far removed from her stereotypical idea of a teacher. But now she noticed his dark, granite-grey eyes. There was an intensity there that drew her in, yet at the same time made her wary, despite his attempt to be friendly. Glancing away, she began to pack up her things, noticing that most of the other students had already left.

  ‘Really good, thank you.’

  ‘Seems like you were inspired,’ he said, as he thumbed through the sheaf of A4 papers covered in her script.

  Wondering if he was being sarcastic, Kate looked up at him but saw only friendliness.

  ‘Yes, the topic of escapism was a good one. I had a lot of ideas.’

  ‘I look forward to reading them,’ he replied, taking the papers from her.

  And then he was gone, leaving Kate to wonder why hers was the only paper he had taken from the class.

  Chapter 10

  Catherine

  It always started the same, which made Catherine wish the first part of the dream would go on for ever. Like in a film set straight out of Hollywood, she was sitting on the riverbank with Richard, enjoying a picnic she had made herself of freshly baked rolls, salad, fruit, cheese, and a crisp bottle of wine, with nothing more to do than watch the sun’s rays bounce off the water. They weren’t alone: there were numerous families picnicking, making the most of the good weather. She lay back lazily, serene from the wine and the food, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the children, including her own, paddle amongst the rocks and stones on the banks of the river. The English countryside of the North-East was at its best. Humming with the warm arrival of summer, it was vibrant with life, showing off its beauty, not yet aware that a precious cycle of life would soon abruptly come to an end.

  As she leant against the comforting bulk of her husband, her eyes started to close. The lazy feeling was irritatingly interrupted by an arrow of instinct, demanding vigilance from her as her family played in the water. Like a patient trying to resist the effects of anaesthetic, the more she tried to remain alert, the more she felt dragged down into an unwelcome darkness. She tried to tell Richard to make sure he stayed awake but she could only manage a murmur, which he couldn’t hear. A part of her, somewhere deep inside, experienced a flicker of unease, which she quickly extinguished. Surely she deserved a few minutes’ rest. No longer able to resist, she fell under the spell of sleep.

  In her dream, she slept and woke up, and that was when the terror began. What had once been the stunning countryside of her home had now twisted and turned into something barren and bare, the river flowing not with crystal-clear water, but with a thick, scarlet liquid that bled over its banks, rushing towards her as she scrambled to her feet. She was alone and the candle of unease that had briefly flickered was now a raging bonfire. The river was molten lava: hot and overflowing. It burnt the tips of her toes and she scrambled up the bank, trying in vain to climb the nearest tree. But its trunk was unaccommodating and her strappy sandals, which had seemed like the perfect choice for such a relaxing day, sealed her fate, as the burning lava slowly edged up her legs, sweeping her up in its path and pulling her downstream. As Catherine turned her h
ead towards the shore, the last thing she saw was her family standing on the dry shores of the bank, silently watching.

  *

  Catherine had experienced the nightmare – or various versions of it – so many times she now had a routine. She would quietly get out of bed, wash her face, change her nightclothes, and drink a cold glass of water. Despite being used to the after-effects of the horror, her hands still shook as she took the glass and drank greedily. It felt cold and refreshing against her sweating skin and she sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes focusing on the various bits of paper, letters, keys, and the minutiae of everyday life. She used them to drag her thoughts back into the present. Out of habit, she started a to-do list for the next day, the soothing strokes of her pen slowing her heartbeat. Next she checked her diary, making sure she had remembered everything for the week ahead. They were small things, but she felt that they gave an element of control, and it was her way of guiding her mind back into focus, away from the remnants of the dream. It also gave her the courage to climb the stairs and get back into bed. As she lay there, she felt trapped by her own mind. Not even sleep could provide a few hours of complete respite any more. But she knew, given time, that the panic would subside and she would eventually drop off into a fitful sleep.

  *

  Richard had long ago learnt to ignore Catherine’s midnight wanderings. At certain times, especially during the summer, they seemed more frequent than others. He knew they were often preceded by nightmares, but whenever he asked, Catherine told him she was just hot and needed some water. He never told her that she cried in her sleep. He had mentioned it once but she had dismissed it so abruptly, he never brought it up again. Over the years of their marriage, their communication had had peaks and troughs. As a couple, they had phases when it felt like they lived separate lives – he going to work and she doing her various activities for the school and community; their only bond being their daughter. She wondered if Helen knew she was the glue that held the sometimes fragile pieces of her parents together. Maybe that’s why she still lived at home, Catherine thought the next morning as she made coffee. She hoped that wasn’t the case but couldn’t quite convince herself that it wasn’t. She was close to her daughter but they had never shared the most intimate of secrets. Helen was not an open book, and she liked her privacy. At the same time, it would feel strange to Catherine to talk about her marriage with her daughter. In fact, she didn’t feel comfortable doing it with anyone. She had been brought up to believe that you didn’t air your dirty laundry in public.

  When she had met Ruth, almost ten years ago now, she remembered being shocked at how open she was. She had opinions on everyone, from her own husband to her local butcher, and she didn’t care who heard. Catherine smiled to herself as she remembered their first meeting, soon after she and Richard had moved to the Lake District. Ruth was her neighbour and had stopped by to welcome them to the area. In her hands, she held a basket of local goods: thick, apple and pork sausages, home-made jams, apples freshly picked from the orchard, and one of the area’s pride and joy – Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding, which Catherine and Richard had shared that evening. Not usually tempted by dessert, she could still remember the first taste of the pudding, its comforting warmth deliciously balanced by the chill of ice cream.

  While Ruth was an undeniably generous woman, Catherine suspected the real motivation for her visit had been to get the lowdown on who had moved into Bramble Cottage. Reluctantly, Catherine had invited her in for a cup of coffee, and had spent the next hour listening to Ruth as she explained, in great detail, who was who in the village. Despite Ruth’s almost award-winning skill for talking, over the years Catherine had come to rely on her much more than she would care to admit. Yes, she could be slightly overbearing, but she was also warm, generous and funny. Without knowing it, Ruth had helped Catherine settle into her new life in the countryside and she started to look forward to her visits, her offers of help, and her chitchat as a way of breaking up the days. Catherine knew that Ruth occasionally got frustrated with Catherine’s own lack of sharing. Women’s friendships were often built on shared confidences, knowing intimate details about each other’s lives, yet over the years Ruth and Catherine had comfortably established themselves as talker and listener respectively and, for the most part, it suited them both. Ruth was slightly younger than Catherine. Her two sons had both moved away: Matthew was overseas in the army and Luke worked in London in retail. Much like Catherine, she had dedicated her life to raising her children and they were her pride and joy. Matthew wrote to his parents monthly, and Catherine knew Ruth looked forward to the letters immensely. She would then keep the letter in her handbag, sharing with neighbours and friends little snippets of his life as he travelled the world, so different from the calm, peaceful rhythms of the Lake District where he had grown up. Luke dutifully called his mother every Sunday afternoon at three o’clock and Catherine had got used to putting the kettle on at four thirty, ready for when Ruth would come over and excitedly share his news. Both ‘boys’, as Ruth still referred to them, were unmarried and, to their mother, each was living an intriguing life in places that Ruth had only dreamt about visiting. Ruth had been to see Luke in London once, for a weekend, and while thrilled with the hustle and bustle of the capital, the shows, the restaurants, the shopping and, most of all, seeing Luke, Ruth had confessed on her return that she was happy to be home in the peace of the Lakes.

  They were also both women who liked to keep busy so they would often plan a morning out: a walk in the nearby woods, a trip to the garden centre, a visit to a particular boutique in one of the nearby towns. More often than not, they would treat themselves to a cup of coffee and a toasted teacake or, if they were feeling a little more indulgent, a pub lunch of roast beef or lamb on a cold day, and a ploughman’s platter if the weather was warm. Occasionally on the weekend, Richard and Ruth’s husband, James, would join them, but Catherine suspected that Ruth preferred it when it was only the two of them, just as she did. After almost ten years, although unspoken between them, Ruth was Catherine’s closest friend. But despite the years of friendship, or perhaps because of them, Ruth had become used to Catherine’s need for privacy, reverting back to her own chatter when Catherine became evasive about certain subjects. And for this Catherine was grateful. There were some things that were simply too dark to share.

  Chapter 11

  Alison

  January 1998 arrived, and with it a new term. As Alison packed her bags, trying to squeeze in as many of her Christmas presents as possible, she felt a flicker of excitement at the thought of seeing The Professor again. Dropping her home on Christmas Eve, he had given her a very respectable kiss on the cheek before she got out of the car. She could still feel the brush of his stubble. When they saw each other again, what would he say? What would he do? A million questions raced through her mind as she zipped up her bags. Her parents were dropping her off in the car, and as she got in the back seat, her thoughts swirled with possibilities.

  *

  Despite what Alison had imagined, their first meeting was a huge disappointment. His lecture was the first of the week at midday, and she had spent most of the morning getting herself ready for it. Taking almost two hours to do her hair and make-up and carefully choose her clothes, she almost felt like she was going on a night out. By the time she left her room, she had practically convinced herself it was a date. But of course, the reality was very different. He barely acknowledged her as she entered the class, took her seat and opened her notebook. She tried to catch his eye but The Professor was very much in business mode, writing on the board and reviewing his notes as the class settled down to begin. Disheartened, Alison thought to herself that he might approach her after the lecture, which seemed to last an eternity as she tried to concentrate.

  Finally, the hour was up and at 1 p.m., the students raced out of the lecture hall eager to get something to eat to assuage their hangovers. Alison had planned to linger in her seat, hoping The Professor
would do the same, so that they could talk alone. But he had packed up and was out of the class with the rest of the students before she even had time to gather her things. She tried to console herself by reasoning that it was the first lecture of term, so it was bound to be a hectic time, but she still battled with the wave of disappointment that engulfed her. Had she imagined everything in the car that night? It was possible – he hadn’t actually done or said anything to indicate he had feelings for her. Maybe she’d drunk more wine than she thought and got it all wrong? But deep down, she knew that the kiss, even though it was only on the cheek, had lingered. She knew that she hadn’t imagined his fingertips brushing hers as he changed gears. And most of all, she knew that the last look exchanged between them before she got out of the car was one of promise.

  *

  Alison walked back to her college, her head bent low against the bitter, bracing wind. The biting temperatures cooled her simmering mood, and as she walked she turned over in her mind the various possibilities. Perhaps The Professor had simply been busy? Wasn’t it possible that he was even, perhaps just maybe, looking for a sign from her? Could it be that he was in his study right now, wondering why she hadn’t approached him? She hadn’t even greeted him! No wonder he had rushed out – he was probably cross with her that he had been ignored. Cheered slightly by the thought, Alison crossed Elvet Bridge, her gaze drawn to the River Wear. Its calm waters had never failed to soothe her, but she still felt restless, dissatisfied by the outcome of the long-anticipated meeting. Perhaps she could take The Professor up on his offer and stop by his office, on the pretext of having a few questions about the course? She would go towards the end of the week she decided, once the initial flurry of the new term had settled down.

  Pleased at having been so decisive, and her mind now able to focus once more, Alison wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck and headed back to the sanctuary of her room. It was only once she was back in the warmth that she realised it was the first lecture she had attended where her first thoughts hadn’t been how difficult the subject was and how much work she had to do.