‘You were angry with me.’
‘I’m not now.’
‘You’ve got a terrific temper.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘All right. I’m sorry I went on about it.’
They sat for another minute or two without speaking. Then Stephen said, ‘Oughtn’t you to get it cleaned up?’
‘Suppose I should.’
‘I think we’ve got something Dad used to put on me when I got hurt.’
‘All right. I don’t know where Uncle Joe keeps that sort of thing.’
In the tiny bathroom, he told her to wash her face with soap. Then she dabbed the wound with the antiseptic. ‘Ow! Stings!’ she said. It was no longer bleeding, but a dark blue bruise was already beginning to show.
‘What’ll you say when your mum asks how you did it?’ Stephen asked.
She looked in the glass over the basin. ‘I’ll say I walked into a lamp-post. Isn’t that what drunks always say?’
‘She won’t believe you.’
‘Then I’ll say I got punched by a friend.’ She was laughing at him, and he didn’t mind.
‘Funny sort of friend she’ll think you have.’
‘I’ll think of something. Don’t worry. I won’t tell her it was you.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said, and meant it.
‘All right. You don’t have to go on saying that.’
‘Tea?’ he said.
Back in the kitchen he made mugs of tea. He ladled the sugar into hers. He knew about people in shock. She seemed all right, though, drinking the too-hot liquid in loud gulps.
He said, ‘Why did you go on? About my mum?’
She said, ‘Because I know something bad has happened about her. I thought it might help if you said what it was. After all, it can’t be worse than her leaving you. Or being dead.’
Couldn’t it? There wasn’t time to weigh up the different possibilities, but he had a feeling that she might be right. His mum wasn’t dead, she hadn’t deserted him. A great many instant thoughts flashed through his mind. Then he decided. She knew so much already, it was better to tell her the lot. He said, ‘I’d always thought my mum was dead.’
‘And she isn’t after all. Where is she?’
He told her. By degrees, he told her everything. She sat looking at him, not interrupting except to ask a question when she didn’t understand. She asked the same questions that he had asked his dad, and he couldn’t answer them. When he’d finished, she said, ‘Poor you.’
It was the sympathy that made his eyes water and the lump come in his throat. He swallowed and said, ‘So I don’t know what’s going to happen.’
‘When she comes out?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Aren’t you pleased she’ll be around? After all this time?’
He was angry again. ‘How can I be pleased? I don’t know her, what she’s like. I might not like her.’
‘She’s your mum!’
‘Not really, she isn’t. She hasn’t been my mum all these years, has she? She’ll be like a stranger.’
‘I’d be pleased if it was my mum coming back.’
‘Even if she’d . . . whatever she’d done?’
She almost shouted at him, ‘Yes!’
‘But you know yours. What she’s like as a person. I don’t know what mine’s like. I only know she killed someone.’
‘You said your dad said he was a nasty piece of work?’
‘But you can’t go round killing anyone who’s a nasty piece of work.’ Stephen thought of several people at school who fitted this description and suddenly he laughed.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘Thinking of Beve at school. He’s the nastiest piece of work I know.’
She sat silent. Then she said, ‘Couldn’t you use one of your keys to find out?’
‘Find out what?’
‘What your mother’s really like.’
‘How?’
‘Go to somewhere where she’s around and talk to her.’ He noticed that she hadn’t said the word prison.
‘Every time I’ve used a key I’ve been in Australia. She’s somewhere in England. I don’t see that that’s going to be a lot of help.’
‘You don’t think you might be able to choose?’
‘I’ve never known where I was going to be with any of the keys. I don’t choose, do I?’
‘You’ve never tried.’
It was true. But he didn’t want to.
‘How many keys have you got that you haven’t tried yet?’
‘Just the one you’ve just given me.’
‘Why don’t you try? Getting to see her? Your mum.’
‘I might.’ He was tired of this conversation. He wanted Alex to leave.
As if she’d heard his wish, she drank her tea quickly. She got up and said, ‘I’ll be off, then.’ He saw her to the door. She said, ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘That’s all right.’
She was gone. He wasn’t sure whether he was glad he’d told her, or not.
21
Perhaps Alex’s mum had been right. Stephen reluctantly admitted to himself that it had been a relief to talk. And he had also to admit that he couldn’t have found anyone better to talk to. Alex hadn’t reacted badly. She hadn’t seemed particularly shocked, she hadn’t turned soppy about mothers in general, she had asked the same questions that he had asked of his dad. He began to feel that next time she was visiting next door, he’d talk to her again.
Meanwhile ordinary life went on. He began to forget. Or rather, he never completely forgot, but he was able to think about other things for quite long periods at a time. Football. School work. To his own astonishment, he found that he was quite interested in the science lessons which were new that term. It intrigued him to learn that ‘metals’ were not, as he’d always thought, things like gold bars and silver coins and tin cans and iron posts, but atoms of chemical substances which each had its own peculiar properties. Different from non-metals. He liked the idea of these atoms linking on to each other in their billions to make what could actually be seen with the naked eye. It gave him the feeling that what he saw in everyday life and what he had always accepted as just what it looked like, was really a whole unknown world of fizzing activity. The thought made him mentally dizzy. But he found that he could hold both ideas at once. Here was the kitchen table at which he sat and ate and on which he spread his books and papers, and at the same time, here was a centre of energy, all those tiny particles rushing together to make—wood. Which had once been alive, a tree. He supposed that everything in the world was made up of as many different explanations. So that you could never look at anything simply again. You only saw what it was being for you at this moment. A millionth part of its whole existence.
It was deepest winter. On rainy mornings he seemed to be going to school in the dark and it was dusk when he came home. He was growing suddenly immensely fast. Dad grumbled when he had to buy new boots, new shoes, new trousers and jacket. ‘I can’t help it, can I?’ Stephen complained.
‘Hope you slow down soon,’ Dad said. But he didn’t stop Stephen choosing the shirts and trousers he wanted, even when they were not the cheapest. ‘Just make them last,’ he said.
They seemed to be on the usual terms. A sort of unexpressed cool friendship. Dad mostly silent, more often out than at home, hardly ever asking questions about Stephen’s daily occupations, not talking about his own.
And between them was always the unexpressed question of when? Where? How? Stephen knew that the time for his mother’s release from prison must be near. But he did not ask and his dad never spoke of it.
It was because he could think of nothing he wanted to do, that on the last weekend before Christmas he looked again at the keys. Was it possible that, as Alex had suggested, he might be able to learn what sort of a mother he would have? He took the key Alex had given him and examined it. It was the largest he had had, and with its long straight stem and the loop at the
top, it looked somehow formal. A severe key. The wards were simple. Straightforward. An official key. Not made for fantasy.
Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he put it in his pocket and went out on his bike. He rode away from the town. It didn’t take very long to be out in what was almost country. The road was bordered by hedges, there were fields on either side, and the houses were few and far between. He cycled on, not caring where he went, wondering occasionally whether he was going to be able to find his way back. There was no sun to steer by, the sky was grey and woolly, and he had very little idea in which direction he was going. Presently he came to a village. There was a village green with several houses round it, a church with a small crowded churchyard, and two immense chestnut trees, now almost bare of leaves, near a duck pond. There was nothing to tempt him to stop. He rode on. He passed a farm and saw a yard full of farm machinery. An old man called out to him, ‘Where’re you off to?’
Stephen called back, ‘Don’t know,’ and hurried on. He did not want to stop and talk.
Presently the hedge on one side of the road gave way to a high stone wall. It had curved iron spikes on top of it, and he wondered what the owner was so anxious to keep out. When he came to a gate, he dismounted and went to peer through the bars to see what was so precious inside. He saw a long drive bordered by dark trees, leading uphill. It disappeared round the side of the hill. He couldn’t see any house.
He rode on further and came to another gate. He tried to spy through this one too, but the bars were backed by metal sheeting. He could see nothing. Annoyed, he rattled the gate, but it was too heavy to move. It was taller than the first he had seen and immensely solid. Which was perhaps why, when he saw a gaping keyhole below his left hand, he thought of his last key and tried it in the lock. It won’t work, he thought. This immense gate hadn’t given him the feeling he’d had about the other doors he’d been through. It wouldn’t have anything to do with him. It wouldn’t be Australia he would find himself in.
He was surprised when the key turned. He pushed the gate open, and found that he was looking up a short drive towards a huge turreted building of red brick with white facings and many small windows, all barred. In the middle of the frontage was a high arch, guarded by a large wooden door. Not a grand mansion, like those he’d seen in television dramas, more like a sham castle. He didn’t like it. It was pretending to be something it wasn’t.
As he looked he saw that a part of the large door was a smaller door, and that it was opening. Three people came out, a uniformed man with keys in his hand, followed by two women, one carrying small hand luggage. They walked down the gravel path towards the gate. Stephen just had time to hide himself between the bushes growing inside the high wall. He heard keys rattling but he remained hidden.
The two women were speaking to the man, saying goodbyes. Now that they were near him, he could hear what they said to each other. They did not have the Australian accent he had heard in his earlier experiences. It was plain English like his own.
One of the women said, ‘It was good of you to come. Specially today.’
The other said, ‘I wasn’t doing anything today, anyway.’
The first woman said, ‘Still, I’m grateful. You didn’t have to come yourself.’
‘We always do send someone. For anyone who’s been in a long time.’
The first woman said, It has seemed long. ‘It’s difficult to believe it’s finished with.’
‘It’ll take time to acclimatize,’ the second woman said, and the first replied, ‘I know.’
They stood for a short time not speaking. Then the second woman said, The car was supposed to be here.’
‘I don’t mind. It’s good to be in the fresh air.’
There was another silence. Then the second woman said, ‘Your husband?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You weren’t expecting him to be here?’
She answered ‘No.’ She said it neutrally. No blame. Not even sadness.
‘Do you think there’s a future for you with him?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He hasn’t said?’
‘No.’
They were silent again. Then the first woman said, There’s the boy.’
‘Yes. I wasn’t thinking. How old is he?’
‘Growing up.’
‘He knows?’ the second woman asked gently.
‘My husband told him. Not so long ago.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How old was he when …’
‘Four. Nearly.’ She said suddenly, ‘Deedie.’
She was his mother. Peering through the leaves of the bush, he could see now that she wasn’t unlike the photographs. She had the same dark curling hair, but her face was thinner and had lines which hadn’t been there before. She had a closed in, almost secretive expression. But when she looked round at the frozen road and the leafless trees, she smiled, and Stephen saw at once that what she had not lost was the liveliness and friendliness which had shone out of those early pictures.
The second woman said, ‘Here it is,’ and Stephen heard the sounds of a car coming along the road and drawing up in front of the gates. He heard a voice say, ‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic was really bad.’ Then the sound of doors being opened and slammed shut. He heard the clang of the big gate and the turning of the key in the lock. Then the footsteps of the man going back up the drive to the red brick fortress.
Stephen waited till he thought the man would have reached the wooden door. Then he dared to come out from behind the sheltering bushes. He unlocked the big gate and came out on to the deserted road.
He picked up his unnoticed bicycle and rode home. There was very little traffic now, but he lost his way several times. His dad was annoyed that he’d come in so late. He did not ask where he had been, and if he had, Stephen would have found it hard to tell him.
22
He had seen his mother.
What surprised him was how ordinary she had seemed.
He must have been expecting something quite different. A woman who looked as if she could kill. That still young woman in a winter coat and bare head, talking in a quiet voice to the visitor who had come to meet her, could have been anyone he might pass in the street and not notice. She wasn’t anything like his idea of a murderess. This was the end of another of his imaginings. He realized that he had been building up a picture of their meeting in which he had recognized something from a long way past. He had wondered if he would find her voice familiar. Or perhaps it would be the way she walked that would bring back memories he didn’t know he had. But this wasn’t the case. She was a stranger. He felt nothing for her, only discomfort for himself. He did not want her to be part of his family. He and Dad were all right as they were, in the cool, detached relationship they had shared for the last eight or nine years. She would be an unnecessary extra. And he was afraid that she might somehow put him to shame by appearing in their lives, and making it necessary for him to have to account for her long absence to people he knew. He wished guiltily that she would never come out of prison. As long as she stayed locked up, she was no threat, but once she had come out, he thought he could never be easy again.
It was the next day that his dad said, ‘We’ll be going over to see your gran on Christmas Day.’
Stephen said, ‘Do we have to?’
‘You know we do.’
‘I hate going there.’
‘I don’t like it much, myself,’ Dad said.
‘Let’s not, then. We could stay here. There’s always lots to watch on the telly.’
‘We won’t stay long.’
‘Do we have to go for Christmas dinner?’
‘Alice won’t like it if we don’t.’
‘Her cooking’s horrible.’
He knew that his dad agreed, though he didn’t say anything.
‘Couldn’t we skip dinner? For once?’
‘No, we couldn’t. And you’ve
to look as if you were eating.’
‘I bet Gran wouldn’t notice if I didn’t.’
‘Alice would. No. We’re going. That’s all about it.’
Stephen had a feeling that there was something not being said. He was right. After a long pause, his dad said, ‘Your mum’ll be coming out after Christmas.’
He almost said, ‘I know.’ But stopped himself in time.
‘She won’t be coming here, though,’ Dad said.
‘Where?’
‘There’s places they take people to when they first come out. Gives them a chance to get used to it.’
‘What sort of places?’
‘Halfway houses, they’re called. Or something stupid like that.’
Stephen made himself ask, ‘Will she be coming here?’
‘Not for a long time. If ever.’
He would have liked to ask what would decide whether she came here or not. But it was the sort of question his dad certainly wouldn’t answer. Instead, he asked, ‘You going to see her?’
‘I’ve been seeing her. Every month.’
‘I mean, when she comes out.’
‘Depends what she wants.’
He couldn’t make out what his dad felt. Did he want that woman back? Did he still think of her as his wife? Why couldn’t he say what he was feeling instead of this locked up silence that shut out Stephen and the rest of the world? Stephen dared to say, ‘What do you want?’
To his surprise, Dad didn’t answer the question at once with one of his put-down replies that didn’t tell you a thing. He seemed to be thinking. Then, at last, he said, ‘It’s been a long time. We’ll have to see.’
Stephen blurted out, ‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘Doesn’t she want to see me?’ He remembered the way the woman by the leaded gate had said, ‘Deedie!’ He had been able then to see that this thin, older woman was the same as the young, eager one in the photographs. What he couldn’t fit into the picture was that she was in prison because she had killed someone.
His dad said, ‘She’s asked about you. Every time I saw her.’
He didn’t know why this made him feel choked. He managed to say, ‘She didn’t want to see me?’
The If Game Page 12
