The If Game (16 page)

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.

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?'

‘I wouldn't take you there. Not to see her like that.'

‘But when she comes out?'

‘We'll see.'

He didn't know what he wanted. A mother who had been in prison? A mother he hadn't seen for more than eight years? A mother he couldn't remember? Would she expect him to be all loving and cuddly as he must have been when he was a baby? It was all confusing and uncomfortable. He wished his mum had died instead of
being alive now. Then he felt bad at wishing that. But he was still angry with her. He knew that it wasn't exactly her fault that she was going to be around any minute now to upset the ordinary life he'd lived ever since he could remember. He was used to being Stephen with just a dad and no mother, and that was how he wanted it to go on.

Christmas was over. Aunt Alice's Christmas dinner had been more than usually dreadful. Gran had been demanding and whiny and sorry for herself. Her present to Dad had been an unwearable scarf knitted by herself, and to Stephen she had given a very old leather purse with a broken fastening. ‘It's not new, but there's plenty of wear in it yet,' she had said.

‘I shall throw it away when we get home,' Stephen said as they drove away from that sad house, where Gran complained and Aunt Alice suffered.

‘Belonged to my dad,' Stephen's father said.

‘Do you want me to keep it, then?'

‘Not if it's no use.'

‘You don't want it?'

‘No. Thanks.'

Stephen had saved the cardigan to give Dad after they'd got back. He'd felt it would be something to look forward to, to help him get through the visit to Gran. He knew that his dad wouldn't want to have to open that elegant box and all the tissue paper inside. Opening the wrappings of presents was one of the things that deeply embarrassed him, so Stephen took the cardigan out of its box and handed it to Dad, naked, as you might say.

‘Here. My present for you,' Stephen said, wondering whether Dad could possibly appreciate its importance. He watched as Dad slowly unfolded the arms of the cardigan, his expression giving nothing away. He held it up against himself. Then, he took off the pullover he was wearing
and put on the cardigan. Stephen was pleased to see that it was a perfect fit. Dad still didn't speak. There was a small mirror that lived permanently behind a mug on the kitchen dresser. Dad pulled it out and looked at himself. Then, at last, he looked at Stephen and said, Thanks. Looks good, don't you think?'

Stephen said yes, he did.

Dad stroked the sleeve of the cardigan and said, ‘Cashmere?'

‘It's cashmere,' Stephen said.

‘I've never had anything cashmere,' Dad said.

‘It'll be warm,' Stephen said.

‘I'll be as grand as the Great Mogul,' Dad said. Passing Stephen on his way back to his usual chair, he put out a hand and just touched Stephen's hair. He didn't say any more, but Stephen was satisfied. Dad had understood.

The week after Christmas and before the New Year was as might have been expected. Stephen watched television more than usual because most of the big shops were shut and most of his friends were away. He was bored. But at the same time he was uneasy. In a few days' time, his mother would be coming out of that red brick prison he had seen. She would be free. Free to visit him. He dreaded the moment.

There were still three days to go, when he heard voices from next door. A woman was calling in the garden. ‘Alex! Dinner's ready.'

He was surprised at the lift in his heart. Alex was there. He gave them an hour to eat their dinner, then he rang Mr Jenkins's front door bell.

He had never before seen the woman who answered it. She was small and, he couldn't help admitting, pretty. Not at all like Alex to look at, but when she spoke, her voice was just like her daughter's.

‘Yes?'

‘I wondered if I could see Alex?'

She said, ‘Are you Stephen from next door?' When he said, ‘Yes,' she turned into the hall and called, ‘Alex! It's your friend Stephen.' Turning back, she said, ‘Alex doesn't know anyone else here. That's how I guessed it was you.'

Remembering his manners, he said, ‘I hope you had a good Christmas.'

‘It was all right. I'm not that keen on Christmases. They're fun when you've got little kids, but not so much when you're all nearly grown up.'

Sensible woman. Would his mum be as calm about anniversaries as this? Alex appeared behind her mother and said, ‘Hi!'

‘Hi!'

Alex's mother stepped back and disappeared. Alex and Stephen stood looking at each other.

‘I can't ask you in,' Alex said.

‘That's all right.' Stephen considered the possibilities of his own house. Dad was in the kitchen, either sleeping or watching television. He said, ‘Come for a walk?'

She looked pleased. ‘I'll get my coat.'

He waited until she reappeared in a short thick coat which was too large for her. She laughed when she saw his look. ‘One of my Christmas presents. It's miles too big, but it's really warm.'

They walked through the overgrown garden. ‘Where'll we go?'

‘The park?'

‘It'll be full of kids learning to ride their new bikes.'

‘I don't mind.'

When they had found a bench among a little maze of paths too rough for the bike learners, Alex asked, ‘Did you have a nice Christmas?'

‘Not really. Did you?'

‘I quite liked it. I got some really good presents. Did you get anything exciting?'

‘My dad gave me a computer game. Trouble is, we haven't got a computer.'

‘So how'll you play it?'

‘One of my friends's got one. I'll go round to his house and we'll play there.'

‘Anything else? Present, I mean?'

He told her about his gran's old purse and Aunt Alice's postal order. ‘It's good of her, because she hasn't any money. But the chicken she cooked was terrible. I had to swallow it in gobbets so as not to taste it.'