Another Mother's Son (20 page)

I stand at the top of the stairs intending to speak definitively of Jude. I knock on Ewan's door, step inside and open my mouth.

He is lying on the bed on top of the duvet. He props himself up on his elbows as if ready to listen to me. There is a naturalness to the posture. In a small room, unless you are Houdini, there are not so many options. You can sit at the desk, or on the floor with your back against a bed, or you can lie on the bed. I tell him about Jane Brims's visit. He laughs and when he speaks his voice is different. He is more alert. Sheepish? Do I imagine that? Like Dirk Neerhoff, I am looking for clarity.

IF SUNDAY EVENING
were a location it would be a harbour wall by an estuary, tidal water slapping against stone. The ferry timetable on a board attached to a post: ‘10–11 and 3–4 daily. Monday to Saturday. Wave or phone for service.' The far shore is visible, similar to where I stand but out of reach. It is a nothing kind of time, a little moribund, and usually I watch television. I cannot do this simple, mindless thing and instead go from the kitchen to the living room and back, on patrol. I clear the table and the coffee cups and wash the pans in three-minute bursts, then I am off again. Occasionally, I stop mid-step, as though a gate bars the way.

As I bump against the stack of boxes and set the clock chiming, I see my mother standing – she rarely sat down – standing in a room, gesticulating; her face animated and her hair that was rather wild and unruly springing from her head and contributing to her vitality. She reminded me of one of William Blake's angel figures who fizz and spark – so different from the Victorian hymnbook types who seem to be waiting beyond endurance in a queue.

I fetch a heavy-duty screwdriver from the tool kit under the kitchen table, slide the blade under the staples that fasten the lid of the uppermost box and prise until the released ends stick up, sharp and dangerous. I pull the cardboard sections apart, with a noise of tearing. There are the pair of Afghan rug cushions that used to be on a window seat in my parents' old house. The colours are good: faded indigo, terracotta and saffron yellow. I take out the cushions and hug them to myself. They have a musty smell of trapped dust. I have lost the modulations of Mum's voice though phrases and favourite words come through. It was not anything she said that comforted me, but rather her presence.

I go into the living room, carrying the cushions in my arms. I place them at one end of the sofa, lie down and rest my head on the prickly fabric. I do not know how long I stay there, stretched out as much as the sofa's length will allow, but at a certain point I hear people talking a few feet away. The insistent timbre of their voices is wrong for a dream. I realise that I am hearing recorded sound and that the television must be on. I swivel round and swing my feet onto the floor. I quickly become immersed, not so much in what is going on, but in the emotional tone of the film. I am drawn into the made-up world as to a view of the sea that distracts and appeases and on which I can gaze for a while. I missed the beginning but that does not seem to matter. While I was lying prostrate and mentally absent, something happened, a murder or a kiss, that is not reprised, or even alluded to, but which creates an atmosphere. The film is bathed in an atmosphere that is, in effect, an aftermath.

When I finally drag myself to bed I am unable to sleep. I remember only the bad parts of my life. At four in the morning, I go downstairs. I put on a jumper that I have left hanging over a kitchen chair and slip on a pair of old espadrilles that I keep by the back door. I draw the bolts and go out into the garden. I find the broom and begin to sweep. Fallen leaves and sycamore helicopters. A pink plastic clothes peg. Something glints. A knife that must have been dropped on a rare summer day when we ate outside. I pick it up, put it by the back step and carry on sweeping. Having cleared the accessible section in the middle of the garden, I tackle the edges. I lift the bikes away from the fence and shift the barbecue. The pile of fallen leaves grows. I breathe the cool air, glad to be out of doors.

By first light, the paving slabs, after my obsessive tidying, resemble a beach swept clean by the tide. Creeping plants, trails of green set free from accumulated debris, push up through the cracks. I start to pull up last summer's geraniums from the tubs. One or two are in flower though the scarlet of the blooms, over-wintered, has lost intensity and acquired a purplish tinge. I cut the stems and put them to one side to stick in a jug indoors. The rest go into a black plastic rubbish bag. I never got myself to Crews Hill or any other nursery to buy spring bulbs.

I keep glancing up at the house.

AT SEVEN O'CLOCK
on Monday morning, I go in to Ross. I have had so little sleep. I move as though I have been knocked down by a slow-moving vehicle that failed to kill or injure me but left me nervously impaired. I stand over the concealed corpse in the bed and address it. There is still time, I tell the corpse. Time to compose an apology. It can be brief; handwritten or electronic. If handwritten, it can be taken along to Mr Goode's secretary. Mr Goode need not be encountered. If electronic, fine. In both cases, getting up must take place, school clothes be put on, a journey to Lloyd-Barron Academy undertaken in the old way. The five days are up. I continue to talk as I open the curtains, find underpants, socks, shirt, tie, trousers, blazer and place them on a chair. I speak of bravery, adulthood, self-interest – and finally of necessity. I lean over to pull off the duvet but some movement in the air or perhaps my smell, the smell of mother, as I draw close causes a Moro reflex in the body, a tight monkey grip. The bedding, previously loose, convulses. It billows and hardens under my hand. I cannot wrestle this cumbersome thing into school uniform or drag it along the street. If it doesn't budge, it doesn't budge.

I shut the front door and set off into the ordinary morning. Dairyman's Road, Alderman's Hill, Palmers Green station. The air is a salve and the gardens I pass, for the first time this year, have the cool, sweet smell of spring vegetation. Every step takes me further away from home. I am glad that this is so, though I carry its inhabitants with me and am bound to return. I understand traumatic bonding, though someone more of a Puritan might call it perseverance; words and actions interminably repeated. A child does, in the end, lose interest in the power sockets. I undertake my visits, or visitations, to Ewan's room and Ross's room in that spirit. Here we go again. It causes less anguish than thinking afresh. I keep walking. I think of the academy – another school day – and wonder what is happening there. I should like to talk to Ginny but the tone of my last conversation with her prevents me. I am afraid of her disapproval, though I share it. I keep walking.

I have to prepare for a budget meeting on Tuesday and this occupies me. I do not get round to more mundane tasks until late in the afternoon. Among my emails, there is a message from Tony Goode.

Good morning,

After due consideration, the five days being actioned, whilst an exclusion may be an appropriate sanction, warranting the severity of the misdemeanour and bearing in mind that malicious communication is setting a precedent, the Academy takes into consideration any contributing factors that are identified after an incident of behaviour has occurred. For example, where a student has suffered bereavement, has mental health issues or has been subject to bullying. In the lenient circumstances of the object of the malicious communication being unfortunately deceased and presumably harassment, cause offence, inconvenience or needless anxiety not being applicable in the circumstances, could yourself and Ross Doig report to my office on Monday morning at 08.30

I read the message through twice. I think it means what I take it to mean. I am puzzled that it has only just reached me. It is dated today. I can only assume that the text was drafted on Friday but withheld until approved by somebody – and then forgotten about.

I call Lloyd-Barron Academy.

‘Thank you for waiting. What's the name again? Barrie?'

‘No, Parry.'

‘Parry?'

‘Yes. But it's about Ross Doig. DOIG. I have received the email about my son Ross Doig's reinstatement and we're so delighted and relieved that he can—'

‘They've put you through to the wrong extension. Try the other number. There's no way back on this one. No worries.' Me, I'll carry on chatting or eating a banana.

I call again. The phone rings twice, followed by an out-of-office reply. Back to the switchboard. I finally get Amrita.

‘Mr Goode is in a meeting,' she says in a hushed voice.

I say that perhaps she, Amrita, can help me. I have received the email about my son Ross Doig's reinstatement.

‘Please hold the line,' she says.

I hear scratching, rustling sounds like hens moving about in a coop, then a long silence.

‘Hello.'

‘Hello.'

I am on the point of giving up when Amrita comes back.

I begin again, determined to keep going this time even if I am communing with chickens. I say that I am delighted and relieved that Ross can continue his studies in the school that has done so much for him and where he's been so happy. He and his brothers. It has been a long association. He really has learned his lesson and the academy won't regret the decision. I am only sorry that we didn't get the message in time for Ross and me to keep the appointment at eight-thirty. Obviously, I've been checking my emails on an hourly basis but for some inexplicable reason it has only just shown up. We'll be there first thing tomorrow and I'm really sorry for any mix-up.

I hear the scratching sound, followed by a whisper. Someone coughs.

‘Oh, have you only just got the email? I'll let Mr Goode know. I'm looking at Tuesday's agenda … bear with me … No, Mr Goode has an appointment tomorrow morning. Tell Ross to be here for registration as usual. I'll revert to you if Mr Goode wishes to arrange a meeting.'

I thank Amrita – excessively.

I FEEL HOPEFUL
as I travel home. When I enter the house I call out hello. I am a mother with children at home. Two of them. A double bill for my performance as actor nurse. Nurse Actor. The hall smells rancid, of fishy broccoli like an unappetising hospital lunch.

I go upstairs. Ross's door is shut. I stare at the old torn-off stickers, the shards of colour like fragments of butterfly wings, and try to recall what was once depicted. I practise a few of Professor Martinez's expressions. Confidently unexpectant. Unexpectantly confident. Bland as hell. I open the door.

‘Did you get my text?'

Ross is sitting on the floor, squashed in a space between his bed and the chest of drawers. His shoulders are draped in a green fringed silk shawl that belonged to my grandmother. In his hands is a carved wooden tortoise and on the floor next to him two more tortoises in diminishing sizes. He has been rummaging through the boxes. He is a child.

‘Good news, isn't it?' I say.

The sound he makes is not the full nuh-hah; it is closer to no.

It's all right, Ross. You can go back.
I stuck to what was simple and important. I did not suggest that he can put the grim episode behind him, or that he has got off lightly. I made no reference to normality.
We/you can get back to normal.
I never use the expression as I know that boys fear what mothers consider normal. I was careful with the words because the smallest mistake can turn text into a pretext.

He did not reply and he is not replying now but that is not significant. I am amazed that Mr Goode has not insisted on the written apology. He must have forgotten he demanded one. Ross is bloody lucky.

I am on the point of leaving when he opens his mouth.

‘It isn't all right.'

‘Sorry, darling?'

‘You said, “It's all right.”'

‘Yes? Are you making an objection?'

‘It's a lie. It isn't all right and never will be.'

I tell him not to be absurd. I say I'm sorry that I put a foot wrong. He's been punished and it's over. I tell him not to get entrenched in a foolish position and that I'm not even listening any longer. He is wrapped in green silk and sitting cross-legged. His expression is not that of the Buddha. I say that he will see things differently by the morning. I am tired.

Tuesday is the day of the budget meeting. I immerse myself in work. I have no idea whether Ross will see sense during the course of the day. I do not communicate with him. I stay in the office until seven o'clock and am glad when the Victoria line train waits at Euston so that the service can be regulated and again in the tunnel outside Highbury and Islington for a platform to become available. I stop off at the supermarket to buy extra food because Ross cleared the fridge yesterday. I choose the longest queue at the checkout. My capacity to distance myself has the staying power of a dandelion clock. As soon as I step into Ross's room, I see from the taut muscles in his neck, the rigid set of his head on his shoulders, that he has not relented. I wear myself out with cajoling and threatening. I speak of prosecution and parenting orders. I tell him I will not cover up for him. On the contrary, I will inform the school of his stupidity. This is motherhood as extreme sport. It is one of the vilest evenings of my life.

On Wednesday, as usual, I have a stack of emails. There is one from Chris Orrick. I haven't seen or heard from him for months but it is clear from the message that he believes he is in the forefront of my mind.

Hi Lorna, you must be wondering why you haven't been sent a copy of my book. Joking. No, actually, I'm thinking the Stratford Tube Crash of 8th April 1953 has better potential. I've figured out how it's going to work. A damaged signal on permanent red, the train driver's vision obscured by a cloud of dust. A similar accident happened at that precise location seven years previously. Perfect ingredients. I'm the driver, right. Suddenly everything feels weird, different. In front of the cab is a jagged hole, belching out smoke. An eerie light I've never seen before …