Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

What a jolly old liar he is – he thought she’d been absent for a couple of days. If God’s own servant can tell a porkie and not be struck down, then there’s hope for the rest of us.

It’s three o’clock by the time I turn on to my street. Mrs Eckersall from next door is outside cleaning her windows. So she’s not dead after all. I haven’t seen her in months. I’ve not seen anyone do their own in years. I can smell the vinegar she’s using on the newspaper and I’m a good thirty feet away.

I always think that avoiding someone’s eye will make me invisible, but it doesn’t today.

‘Good morning, Erica,’ she says, neither cheerfully nor unkindly.

I hold the key up to my front door, scanning it quickly. The sun has been on the door all morning, and I can smell the dog muck that must’ve worked deep into the cracks.

‘Morning,’ I say.

‘Nice to have a bit of sunshine.’

She’s stopped buffing her windows. I turn my head to face her.

‘Everything all right with you?’ she says.

‘Yes. Why? What have you heard?’

I drop my hand from the lock.

‘Nothing, dear,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all. I just worry about you sometimes. All the comings and goings from your house in the past few days. That girl I saw, the blonde one… I’m not used to hearing commotion from your side. It’ll be making you anxious, I expect. And I saw your Craig at the end of the street before.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me. Everything’s fine. We’re all fine.’

I rush into the house, leaning against the closed front door. I wish people would just mind their own business.

That conversation will replay in my head and I will think of a thousand sentences to improve the outcome. The trouble is, everyone around here knows my business and I don’t know theirs.

The house is silent.

‘Hello? Craig? Are you in?’

I look in the living room, in the dining room. Nothing.

Upstairs, the bathroom door is open, as is Craig’s bedroom door.

His bed hasn’t been slept in – the towel I put on there two days ago is lying at the same angle, untouched. The black bag remains under the radiator. The letters might still be in there.

Yes, they’re in the same place. I sit on his bed and take one from the middle.

1 January 2017

Hi Craig,

HNY!

Sorry about my late reply. You sent me that letter ages ago, but it’s been manic here and I haven’t been round to my dad’s in a while (you can guess why). Can’t wait till we can talk proper. Instead, I’ll just write about what’s happening round here.

Robyn in the bedroom next to mine sneaked a guy into her room last night. She put her chest of drawers against the door, but the guy must’ve been smoking pot or something because Franny McPhee said she could smell it from outside and almost broke the door down getting in. I don’t think they got up to much because Robyn was still in her high-waist jeans and corset top (must’ve been too much of a job for her bloke to get off. Esp. after the weed). Fran said she knew what Netflix and Chill means (whatever, that’s so 2015) and she should rethink her choice of outfits (and blokes) and said she’s not allowed to leave the premises for at least a week, but I can’t see that happening (‘premises’ lol). Banned her from Snapchat for a week, though. Harsh.

Jaden downstairs had his bedroom turned over by two dickheads (had Halloween masks on so the CCTV is useless). They took his hamster, which is well shitty because the kid’s only eight and he’s missing his fam. I think it might’ve got into the walls because I heard scuffling next to me last night. Freaked me out TBH. Thought it was Robyn’s pot-head boyfriend trying to get back into the ‘premises’ (who in their right mind would try to get in here?!).

Got that chain you told me to buy myself for Christmas and I’ve been wearing it every day, even when I’m in the shower.

I’m gonna put a photo in with this letter. It’s only a few months old. It looks like we’re abroad, but it was only Blackpool. Robyn let me have one of her bikinis (she didn’t want it back after I borrowed it ha!). Her mum sends her clothes all the time (Robyn calls it spending guilt money). As you can see, I don’t tan very easy. ‘English rose,’ Mr Townsend the gardener calls me, but everyone knows he’s a paedo, the old perv (he’s about eighty, but… ). I’ve got red hair in that pic, but that was just a temp spray Robyn tested on me. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m back to my natural blonde now.

Four weeks to go!

Are you excited? Nervous? Both?

I’m all three!

PS. Got that other thing you told me to buy 😉

The date meant that these weren’t from Lucy. Leanne. They must be from Leanne. My heart is pounding and the whole of me is shaking. What the hell did he ask her to buy? I don’t want to imagine. She sounds so young. HNY I only deciphered after a few minutes. Happy New Year. It’s a different language.

Why on earth would a young girl want to write to a prisoner? I’ve read about people who write to men on death row. One woman said she was drawn to the serial killer’s eyes. ‘I sensed a wildness in them,’ she said, ‘but he seemed ever so sad.’ She said that she only ever wanted someone to write to, who would write back, and she fell in love with him. What did she get out of that? Her life must have been missing something. Or was it the excitement, the challenge of finding a good heart in someone evil? Perhaps she thought she could change him.

I pick out another letter – an earlier one.

26 August 2016

Dear Craig,

It’s ten to three in the morning and I’m on a visit with Dad. He’s wide awake, shouting at the telly, even though it’s only one of those weird casino programmes. Why do people watch them? I know he hasn’t any money to be gambling on it – I’ve seen his bank statements (he doesn’t care about anything any more, just leaves shit around – not literally, that would be gross, but saying that, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything he does these days).

I managed to nick one of his ciders. It tastes disgusting, but it’s helping a bit.

I know you said you had a terrible time because you never knew your dad, but I suppose we’ve both had it shit in different ways. If you had my dad, you would probably think that nothing is better. But we can’t swap, can we? I’d probably shit myself being where you are (and I’ve seen some pretty bad things in my life).

Least you still have your mum. Mine was a bit wild, but she was my mum and I loved her. I cry at night sometimes, but don’t tell anyone. People forget after a few months and think you’re just meant to get over it. If anything, time makes it worse.

Sorry for being so depressing! Last thing you need probably.

OK, so here’s a joke to cheer us both up:

A guy is sitting at home when he hears a knock at the door. He opens the door and sees a snail on the porch. He picks up the snail and throws it as far as he can. Three years later there’s a knock on the door. He opens it and sees the same snail. The snail says: ‘What the hell was that all about?’

I hold the last letter in my hands.

Leanne said that he had talked about me – she hinted she knew details about his background. It can’t have been from one conversation.

She’s so young, though, and the letters go back a couple of years.

How could he say that about his upbringing? Did I really make his childhood that bad? I wish I’d been the one he’d told these things to.