A Cupboard Full of Coats (27 page)

Fourteen years she had been gone and it had taken me that long to experience grief. My tears when they came were breaking waves crashing downwards, for them, my mum and my dad. For Berris. For Lemon. For Ben. For all that had been done and lost and damaged.

For me.

Then afterwards, kneeling there, I felt like I had ascended into a state of peace, which sat humbled alongside the heartache that had defined every aspect of my life to date. I had wasted so much time, borne so many grudges for so long, and they had made the relationships with the handful of people I had loved in my lifetime impossible. I looked around me at the vast space filled with graves and finished lives and memories. What was the use of grudges when you were sitting here? What was the point?

I would come back. In the week. And bring my own flowers. For them. Walking back to the path I passed another grave like that of my parents’, with
Husband
in faded stencilling, and
Wife
added later in newer, sharper letters, and below it, even brighter yet:

And the ashes of their son

And his details.

I was unable to identify the feeling inside me when I read those words, it was too new, a feeling to which I was unaccustomed, but it was so strong I was compelled to stop walking.

I had done everything I could to shun it, employed every measure to help me forget, to pretend it had never existed. Yet in that instant there was no more room for denial. Perfectly still, I let the feeling flood through me, finally recognizing it for what it was.

My mother’s name.

Joy
.

By the time I arrived back home, there was little left of the short spring day and the house was already in darkness. As soon as I saw it I panicked. I called him even before the front door was properly open but there was no answer. Still I turned on the passage light and the one in the living room. I checked the kitchen then took the stairs two by two. I knocked at the door to my mother’s room and at the same time pushed it open and stepped inside.

The bed was made. His things gone. The room as tidy as if he had never slept in it at all. The only sign that he had been here was the window, opened wide, to let the fresh air in.

The ghosts out.

The net curtain rose and shimmied on the slightest of breezes.

I still checked the bathroom, even though, deep down in my heart, I knew.

And I was devastated.

I had no idea where his home was, no number I could call him on, no way of finding or contacting him. When I had the chance and it mattered most, I had not said
I forgive you
, and now that I was ready to, Lemon had gone.

I rang the doorbell once, then waited. The melody went on at length. When he opened the door and saw me standing there he was surprised.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hello, Red.’

He waited a moment for me to say something else and I was unable to decide which of the three million words in my head to say first, so I said nothing. Then he opened the front door wide and let me in.

It was warm, his home. It smelled of burgers and chips.

‘I’m sorry, I should have rung…’

‘S’no problem,’ he said.

The hallway was packed with shoes in two sizes, as if the occupants consisted of a giant and an elf. They were lined up against the wall in ramshackle pairs. There were coats and jackets and scarves strewn over the banister in a heap, and two bicycles were leaned up against the passage wall. I took my coat off and Red took it from my hands, making eye contact, asking questions, seeking answers. I met his gaze.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Sure. Why not?’

‘He’s in the front room.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll get the tea.’

‘All right.’

‘You want me to come inside with you?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Ben, your mum’s here!’ he called, then went off and I entered the living room on my own.

He was sitting on the carpet in front of the telly. The room was strewn with his toys. They covered every surface, the settee, the table, the floor. Pictures he had painted and drawn were Blu-Tacked on to the walls. A shelf above the TV housed videos and DVDs; children’s ones and family films. There were photos of Ben at every focal point, on top of the TV, above the mantelpiece, and larger ones in heavy frames dominated the window ledge. I thought about his custard-coloured bedroom and felt ashamed.

‘Hello, Ben,’ I said.

He looked up from the colouring book he was scribbling in, then he looked back down.

‘Hello.’

I picked up a muscular male doll in a karate pose from the settee, then sat down in the cleared space, close enough to touch him, though I did not try.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was wrong of me. It won’t happen again.’

He didn’t look up or answer. I was unable to detect even the slightest variation in the rhythm of his colouring-in. I felt the old frustration seeping back and I took a deep breath, trying to check it. I looked around the room wondering how they both managed to live among such chaos and disorder, how they were able to find the space inside it to think. Red came into the room. He looked both pleased and bemused at the same time. Like a person who had come upon the right sign in the right place, unexpectedly. He stared at me as he held out the mug.

‘I didn’t put in any sugar…’

‘That’s fine.’ It was hot in my hands.

‘I wasn’t sure if you still took it the same…’

‘Yep. Exactly the same.’

‘What have you done? You look different.’

‘Do I?’

‘It suits you.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘Maybe it’s love.’

I laughed. Ben looked up. ‘Lemon’s just a family friend, that’s all,’ I said.

‘Whatever,’ Red answered. ‘Hey, Ben, you gonna stop that and come and say hello properly?’

‘It’s okay…’ I said quickly.

‘Come on,’ Red said as if he hadn’t heard me.

Ben stopped. He put the crayon in his hand down on top of the page and looked up at me.

Those eyes.

He had her eyes.
My
eyes. I do not know how I had a problem before working out whether he was handsome or not but I had no problem then. The feeling I had inside me was so powerful, I felt weak. I wanted to grab him to my breast and crush him there, kiss every inch of his face, or maybe cry. He was probably the most handsome boy I had ever seen in my life.

So alive.

How had I not seen it before?

He stood up slowly.

‘Give your mum a kiss, son.’

As I was putting the mug on the floor beside the settee, politely he leaned over and kissed my cheek, and before he could move back out of reach, I touched him gently, his small head, skiffled low. The short hairs against my skin were springy and soft. The warmth from his head and the heat of my palm became one. I ran my hand over him slowly and the feeling inside me intensified. It was as if he were the first thing of beauty I had ever touched.

Without prompt he moved to sit on my lap and slowly, afraid he would change his mind and get back off, I put my arms around his waist. He smelled of biscuits and ketchup and citrus, and below that something faintly manky, like earth. I wrestled a desire to squeeze.

‘How was school today?’

‘Okay.’

‘You do anything nice?’

‘I played with my friends.’

‘What did you play?’

‘Kites and Globby Heads,’ he said.

I scoured my memory banks for some recollection of a game by that name, but came up with nothing.

‘How do you play it?’ I asked.

‘We take off our coats and run around the playground and pretend they’re kites. Then we put our coats on top our heads and call each other “Globby Head”.’

It was, without doubt, the most pointless pursuit anyone had ever explained to me. My son had spent the best part of his day playing the world’s most ridiculous game. I looked into his face to see if he was going to wink at me, or if the corner of his mouth was about to crack a smile, whether his lips were parted in preparation to say the word
Gotcha!

But his expression was solemn. I could see no humour twitching there. Not only had he just said what he’d said, but he was completely sincere. He really meant it. The welling inside me became impossible to suppress and helplessly, unable to resist a moment longer, I squeezed him tight, then kissed his perplexed face.

And laughed.

Acknowledgements

For their contribution to shaping
A cupboard full of coats
, for every suggestion and criticism, I would like to thank my first readers to whom I am indebted; Elizabeth Galloway, Danielle Acquah, Hilary Facey, Shawn Beckles, Jaclyn Griffiths, and most especially, Olcay Aniker.

I would like to thank Nicky Marcus, who discovered me, and Eve White, my agent for her belief in my novel and her determination.

I would like to thank Juliet Mabey for her enthusiasm and application and the team at Oneworld Publications who could not have been more constructive and supportive throughout. Additionally, I wish to thank Sarah Coward, most thorough of copy-editors, for every astute observation and her help with the fine-tuning.

I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have a need to say to the friends and family who have given me the understanding, support, encouragement, and space to finish this novel – yes, you know who you are! – from the bottom of my heart, I am grateful and I thank you.

And finally, my love and thanks to Colin Edwards, whose stability both liberates and empowers me to write.

Yvvette Edwards grew up in Hackney and continues to live in East London with her family.
A Cupboard Full of Coats
is her first novel.