Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

I don’t look around because I don’t care who’s looking at me. I open the door and carefully step inside; there’s nothing on the doormat this time.

In the kitchen, I put the frozen food into the ice compartment and leave the rest on the counter in the bag. Still in my coat, I kneel on the kitchen floor, leaning against the back door. I should be heating my cottage pie; Tipping Point ’ll be on in a minute. My knees are shot; I might never get up. I allow myself a few minutes to wallow before I try to stand. There’s so much to do. They didn’t break me last time, and they won’t now. I’m stronger than I was then.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Soon it’ll be time. Can you imagine what I’ve been thinking about for all these years? I’ve not been able to do anything about it – I need the timing to be perfect, like before. And it’s nearly time.

I need to be a bit more careful now, though. They know more these days. People are filmed almost everywhere; phones are tapped, computers are monitored. You might think – if you’re an ordinary person – that no one is watching you, but they are. Especially online, because that’s easy. Those big internet companies get away with so much. Have you ever wondered why? They know everything about us. So you need to be clever about it. If you want to do something… under the radar, so to speak… you can never have a phone with you (those gadgets are always listening), and you must always know where CCTV is. People – normal people – have cameras pointing at their driveways… they like to protect their property. I suppose that’s reasonable, but why don’t they protect their loved ones in the same way?

It would only take one sighting and I’d be inside. Again.

Though it might be worth it.

So I have to work quickly; get as much done as I can.

Lucy was so good, you know. So pure. With her white-blonde hair, she was almost an angel… so trusting. Perhaps she’s looking down on me now: my very own guardian angel. We will always be linked. Sometimes, I talk to her and she always replies in some way.

I don’t think about the words she said near the end. She didn’t mean them. She loved me, I know she did. She brought out the good in me.

It was different in those days. Not as many mobile phones – there were those shit Nokia ones – if you had one at all. But Lucy didn’t have one. Her parents didn’t trust them.

They trusted me, though.

Her dad was ever so protective. He never wanted her to grow up… didn’t want men to spoil her.

He doesn’t have to worry about that any more.

I was two hours early, just in case. I’ve walked around the housing estate opposite three times. They could do with a coffee shop or something around here.

I’m so tired. I set my alarm for three a.m. this morning, but I needn’t have. There were taps and bangs on the front door and living room window all night. I was too scared to sleep until they stopped. It sounded like children, but surely their parents wouldn’t have let them stay out so late. What’s the point of things going wrong if people don’t learn from our mistakes?

When it finally got to three, the alarm rang out and scared me half to death. It was quiet outside, so I went downstairs and put the kettle on, getting the Dettol out of the cupboard. I had several pairs of marigolds, scrubbing brushes, and there are four big bottles of bleach that I can’t remember buying. I’m sure I didn’t have that many.

It hadn’t rained since four the previous afternoon, so I expected some of it would’ve dried into the cracks of the paint.

I cried the first time I scrubbed dog dirt off the door, but last night I just got on with it and imagined what I’d cook Craig for tea, where we’d sit, and what we’d talk about. I couldn’t think of many subjects. He’s had a television in there, and that’s all we’ve had in common so far.

I know I shouldn’t be nervous now, waiting outside the prison for him, but I am. I haven’t told him many details about my life as it is. He wouldn’t be interested in my online group or my knitting. To be honest, I’m not bothered about knitting any more. Mother tried to teach me, but I only got the hang of the basic knit stitch. Concentrate, Erica! You look like you’re going to stab yourself! I’ve knitted enough squares to blanket the whole of Lancashire, I expect.

I could talk to him about the books I’ve read (though they’re silly, romantic novels); the documentaries we watched at the same time in different places. And I’ve got my folder of places I want to visit, even though that’s not something I’ve actually done yet. I’ll tell him what favourite foods I’ve bought him, and that I recorded that film he used to love.

After buying those treats yesterday, I can’t stretch to a taxi home for us. I hope he doesn’t mind getting the bus.

No, it’ll be fine. He’ll just be glad to be out.

I stand next to the towering doors. It’s strange, waiting here alone. People passing don’t even glance at me; they must be used to it. I want to tell each of them that my son is coming home, that he’s going to be free! My hands are shaking but I don’t bother to hide them. I don’t care. This is the day I’ve been waiting for after seventeen long years.

At eleven o’clock, on the dot, the door opens.

Adrenaline surges through me. It creates a strange combination of feelings: excited, happy, nervous.

Craig steps out. He towers over me, but there are tears in his eyes. He holds out his arms.

‘Mum!’

I rush into him. I promised myself I’d be strong, but I can’t stop the tears. The slam of the door makes me jump, so Craig hugs me tighter. It feels so good to hold him tightly and not have to be mindful of the time.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he says into my hair.

His tears are warm on my scalp.

‘Oh, my boy. I’ve missed you so much.’ I stand back, holding his arms. ‘Look at you! Haven’t you grown?’

He laughs a little as he dabs his eyes with his jumper.

‘You’ve seen me every week, Mum.’

‘I know, but it’s not the same. You’re in daylight, now… in the real world. I can see the colour of your hair properly – it’s gone darker. Did you notice that? Oh, you must be freezing – don’t you have a coat?’

He shakes his head.

‘I got your favourites in…’ I say. ‘Mushy peas, crispy pancakes… You still like all of those things, don’t you? I suppose you will, after the terrible food they’ve been giving you in there. And you’ll like a nice hot bath, won’t you? I got you some bubbles… they’re only Co-op’s own, but they’ll be as good as—’

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘Can we go straight home?’

‘Course we can, Son. I hope you don’t mind the bus, it’s just that I—’

‘The bus is fine.’ He puts his arm through mine as we walk slowly. ‘I’ve never heard you talk as much.’

‘It’s hard to talk freely in there. I thought of so many things to say to you on my way here, but they’ve gone right out of my head.’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of them. And the food inside wasn’t so bad, you know.’

I squeeze his arm towards mine. I never want to let him go.

I can’t stop staring at him. It’s like when he first came home as a baby and I didn’t think he was real. I’d gaze at him for hours as he slept, afraid he’d stop breathing at any moment.

His crispy pancakes and potato waffles are heating in the oven and he’s sitting in his old chair next to the telly. I’m not sure about his choice of programmes, though: Banged Up or something, I think it is. If I’d just come out of that place, it’d be the last thing I’d want to watch.