Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

Eventually, they told me his lungs weren’t as good as they should be because he was early.

I didn’t see him for three days. I lay there on the ward while all the other mothers tended to their little ones. I pulled the curtain around my bed because I cried all day, thinking they’d soon tell me he was dead. The nurses dragged it back open every time. ‘It’s best if you’re not alone.’ I didn’t know why some of them were in the job; they obviously didn’t like people very much.

They kept me in for a week before I was discharged. ‘How can I go home without my baby?’ I asked, but they said they needed the beds. I travelled every day on the bus to come and see him before they let me take him home three weeks later. I finally had him to myself and I didn’t want him to leave my arms.

Kit Kats. Craig loves Kit Kats.

I write it on my list.

I see Denise in the street, sometimes. My heart yearns for that closeness, for the times we knew what the other was thinking without saying. Our children grew up together – they were inseparable during the school holidays.

But I don’t talk to Denise any more. Not after what she did.

It wasn’t that far to the Co-op. It’s in the next town and I could’ve taken the bus, but I have to watch the spends this week if I’m buying all this extra food – my money only stretches so far. I’ve been putting away something each month for my travels – money I used to spend on ciggies. I gave them up years ago. There’ve been times when I think Sod it, I’ll buy some. Who needs dinner? But when I tried going without food for a whole day, my stomach won. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else except food when the body’s starving. I didn’t go further down that dark route, though. Instead, I opened a tin of tomato soup and tried to forget about the nicotine monster (a phrase I read in a self-help book from the library).

If they know I’m Craig’s mother in this shop, they never let on – not like the one at the top of my road. They treat me as though I’m the criminal.

I’ve found everything on my list and watch as the young lad scans and packs everything into my bag-for-life. They’re good like that at the Co-op.

‘Hello there, Erica.’

A man’s voice, loud and self-assured behind me.

I turn around, relieved to see it’s only Jason Bamber. It’s not often I see a friendly face out and about.

‘Hello, Jason love,’ I say.

I turn back to the cashier. The bill comes to £27.50! That would do me a fortnight, but I shouldn’t complain.

I can sense Jason standing behind me. He’s always been kind since Craig’s been inside, and I’ve known him since he was born.

‘Great news about Craig,’ he says.

He strides towards me and takes me in his arms. I’ve only one hand to return the gesture. He’s wearing a suit today, but I don’t know for sure what he does for a living – I’ve not had a proper chat with him for ages. He must be doing well for himself. I feel an actual pain in my chest when I compare him to Craig – how my son’s life could’ve been so different.

‘I… How did you know?’ I say, but I know the answer.

I’ve avoided looking at the newspapers since that reporter Luke Simmons telephoned the other day. I glance at the row of papers near the door and I see it: Murderer to Return to Preston .

My fingers start to tingle; I tighten my grip on the carrier bag.

I knew they’d run with something, but I didn’t think I’d be in a shop full of people when I read it. What did I expect? A warning from that reporter? No. He owes me nothing because I gave him nothing.

‘You OK?’ says Jason. He follows my gaze. ‘They don’t half print some crap these days. Must’ve been a slow news day.’

I smile at him, knowing he’s trying to console me. A convicted murderer returning home is big news, though.

‘Yes, yes. I’m fine.’

How will I get home now? It’s a mile away and my legs are like jelly. I walk out of the automatic doors. Cars whizz past; the road’s so busy. Oh God. I knew everyone would find out, but I wasn’t prepared for it, mentally – not today.

I wish I could buy every single copy of that newspaper and burn the lot.

I could start packing up our stuff when I get home. Craig won’t want to stay around here, I know it. I hear a car pull up next to me.

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

It’s Jason. How did he get his car here so quickly? I didn’t see him leave the shop.

‘It’s OK. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me, love. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.’

His car crawls alongside the kerb as I walk.

‘Erica!’ he shouts. ‘Come on. I wouldn’t want my mother walking so far on a day like this.’

I look up to the sky and he’s right. The clouds are grey and heavy; it feels like it should be six o’clock at night. I stop walking. The hairdresser’s on my right has a sign in the window: Highlights, cut and blow dry, only £50 . Imagine spending that much money on hair! Mine was about fifty per cent grey the last time I looked.

Jason gets out of his car, the engine idling. He takes the carrier bag from my hands.

‘I know Craig’s innocent,’ he says, looking solemnly into my eyes, his lips pursed as though he might burst into tears. ‘He’d never do anything like that.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Craig really appreciates you believing in him. Not many people did.’

He puts my shopping into his boot then opens the passenger door.

He’d never do anything like that .

‘I saw Lucy’s mum the other day,’ he says, as we set off.

The blood in my arms and legs runs cold. Jason’s never mentioned the past before – though we haven’t said more than a quick hello in passing recently.

‘Did you speak to her?’ I say.

‘God, no. What would I say? I doubt she’d recognise me now, though. We’ve all changed so much since back then.’

He glances at me. There’s sweat on his top lip and down the side of his face. He smells strange… sickly sweet.

‘Do you still live with your mum, Jason?’ I say.

He gives a short bark of a laugh.

‘Shit, no. Can you imagine that? She’d bloody nag me all day. No. I’m a free man, me.’ He looks at me again. ‘Sorry. No offence, like. And pardon my French.’ He laughs again.

‘It’s all right,’ I say.

I can’t imagine Jason’s mother ever using language like that, but at least he’s not talking about Gillian Sharpe any more.

We pull up outside my house. I daren’t look.

I don’t need to.

‘Oh God,’ says Jason, after undoing his seat belt and opening the car door. ‘I’ll find the little shits, Mrs Wright. I’ll tear their fucking hair out.’

I put a hand on his arm.

‘No, no, love. I’ll be OK. I knew it’d start again. And they might not be so little these days.’

He gets out of the car and opens the boot, lifting out my carrier. We walk to the front door and stand two feet from it. The smell is awful; I want to gag, be sick, run away.

‘At least the keyhole’s clear,’ I say.

‘I’ll get Stu the window cleaner round. He’s used to clearing up dog crap.’

‘I’ll be fine, Jason. Thanks for the lift.’ I grab the bag from his hand. ‘You take care, now.’

His mobile phone bleeps and he takes it out of his pocket.

‘Give me a ring if you need me,’ he says before leaping back into his car and screeching off.

I stand a little closer to the door. I’d almost forgotten the smell.

The letters, this time, are vertical: WHORE. I’m surprised they managed to collect enough shit to write it in such big letters.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It’s the worst thing anyone could ever call me; I’ve tried hard to learn from my mistake.