Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

There was one picture she kept in a display cabinet. In it, my grandfather’s wearing a light shirt with a knitted vest over the top, and my grandmother’s in a proper 1950s dress, belted in the middle. I like to imagine it was yellow and her belt was patent black. They were both smoking cigarettes and looking off camera, standing in front of a house with grass under their feet, so it can’t have been this house. It was as though they were so used to having their picture taken. They looked kind. I must still have that photograph somewhere.

My mother always used to tell me how wealthy her parents were, that they were involved in the cotton industry, but she never said how or what she did with the money– never showed an interest when the last mill closed. Instead, she said, ‘I could’ve been rich, too, after they died, had I made different life choices.’

I took that personally, of course, but she didn’t mean it in that way.

And now I’m in the same position as she was then. My mother and I might not have been that different after all, but we never found that out, did we?

Well, not until the end.

Now I’m six years older than she was when she died, yet I picture her in my head as an old woman, even though she was only fifty-four. She never let herself relax, and I wished she had. I suppose I’m like that now – I never drink alcohol, I worry about things that will never happen, and I can’t sit still for more than ten minutes. Is it inevitable that we turn into our mothers?

She didn’t leave a will, so I’ve been paying my brother rent for his share of the house since she died. I constantly wonder if he’ll announce he wants to sell. I’d get half, but what could I buy for that? A one-bedroomed flat probably – and I’d be grateful of that – but what would happen to Craig?

I shouldn’t worry about something that’s not happened yet.

There’ve been no goings-on outside so far today. People have been walking to work and not giving us a second glance. It helps that only one person on this street has lived here from that time; most have moved on. Those who stayed live up near the shops. Many of these houses are rented out now – it’s where the profit is; I hear that all the time on Homes Under the Hammer .

It’s only at twenty past eleven that I hear Craig moving upstairs. He hasn’t said what time he was usually woken, but I doubt they gave him a lie-in. I’ve been dressed since I got up in preparation for him coming down. I don’t usually bother getting up until just before ten as that’s when the postman might knock. Sometimes a new one’ll be at the door with a package for a neighbour five, or even ten, doors down, which is ridiculous. It’s worse around Christmas – why don’t people have it delivered to their workplace? They must be so busy that they can’t be bothered going into town to buy presents. If I had the money and people to buy for, then I’d love to.

Oh well.

The regular postie knows I don’t take anything in. What neighbour would want to knock at my door to rescue their parcel?

Craig thuds down the stairs and leans into the living room.

‘I’m going to make some toast. Do you want any?’

He doesn’t wait for a reply, just carries on into the kitchen. I get up and stand at the doorway.

‘I’ve eaten, love,’ I say. ‘Do you know what to do?’

‘I didn’t die and come back to life,’ he says.

I frown at that, but he doesn’t see. I don’t think he realised what he said. He begins humming as he takes the loaf from the wooden bread bin that I’ve had for so long the pine-coloured varnish has worn off. He puts two slices in the toaster. It’s like he’s in his own little world and everything’s fine.

‘I worked in the kitchen for three years,’ he says. ‘I chopped onions, made sandwiches. It was fresh food, you know. Everyone has to work… and my mate Rob got a degree with the OU.’

I don’t say he already told me most of that during our visits over the years. Though when he’d said he worked in the kitchen, I thought he meant washing up, serving food – I hadn’t imagined they’d given them sharp objects. Why hadn’t I asked at the time? But it’s good news; it means they trusted him.

‘What time’s your supervising officer getting here?’

He turns his back to me, his shoulders tense as he leans on the counter. The toast pops up and he scrapes butter on it. He takes a bite; almost half of it in his mouth at once.

‘Half twelve,’ he says, his mouth full. ‘Surprised they arranged a meeting at lunchtime. I could’ve done with a longer sleep.’

I follow him into the living room. He’s so tall, but he can’t have grown since he was last in this house. The markings on the doorway only go a bit higher than I am because he wasn’t interested in measuring his height once he was an inch taller than me.

Looking at him now, bulked out with his weight-training, it seems like he could be capable of anything. And he must’ve learned some new things in prison, too.

Craig doesn’t want me there while Adam, his supervising officer, talks to him. I was allowed to answer the door, though. ‘…Just so he can see you’re around. I wouldn’t want them thinking I was lying about moving in with you. You don’t want to be bothered by all that official stuff though.’

Adam seems nice enough. Young – though of course everyone is these days. I feel so much older than sixty. My mother used to say she knew she was past it when police officers started looking younger than her. Mum always seemed old, even though she wasn’t – such old-fashioned hair. All mothers looked the same when I was a child: permed hair (I imagine they thought they were Marilyn Monroe), skirts to the knee, and powdered faces. They never swore in public, but then got to a certain age when they thought they could get away with saying whatever they pleased, even if those words hurt people.

I’m trying not to eavesdrop on them downstairs, but I’m itching to know what they’re talking about. This is my house, after all. I tiptoe to my bedroom door and open it slightly. They have the living room door open, so whatever they’re saying can’t be that bad.

‘So, to go over this again: travelling abroad is a no-no at the moment. You have to declare your record when applying for employment, although we have approved organisations that’ll offer you certain positions – sometimes on a volunteer basis to begin with, but it all helps… ease you back into life on the outside.’

‘Yes, yes. I know all this.’

‘Well, here’s a list of volunteer positions available to get you into the swing of things. Have you any questions?’

There’s silence for a moment.

‘No. I think we’ve covered everything.’

‘We have courses you could enrol on, so you could—’

‘I’ve been on enough courses.’ Craig almost shouts these words, but then clears his throat. ‘But thank you.’

‘Here’s that leaflet again,’ says Adam. ‘It covers everything, and it’s laid out clearly.’

‘I’d say. It looks as though it’s written for a five-year-old. Number one: Be good . Isn’t that a bit obvious?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Have you got a mobile yet?’

‘No. Should be getting one soon.’

‘Let me have the details about that when you do. And only one phone – text only for the moment. No photographs.’

‘OK.’

Craig’s sounding impatient – I hope Adam doesn’t pick up on it. I’ve read the leaflet they’re talking about. It is a little basic, but he has to behave in these meetings. His freedom is so precarious and I’m not sure Craig fully realises that.

‘Lucy’s mum still lives around here,’ says Craig. ‘They only told me the other day. I hadn’t expected anyone from then to be here now – except Mum of course and….’