Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘One of the guys inside said that when his missus was pregnant,’ he explains, as I stand in the doorway, ‘she’d watch One Born Every Minute all the time. He didn’t get why she’d want to put herself through watching it… She carried on recording it for weeks after the birth until she got fed up of being knackered all day… Never watched the programme after that… well, until she got pregnant again.’ He scratches his head. ‘We talked about loads of rubbish, you know. It wasn’t all bad stuff.’

He’s wearing the jeans and jumper I ordered for him from the catalogue. They seem to fit him well, and he hasn’t complained about them. He’s so much bigger now. The last time I bought him clothes was when he was thirteen years old.

‘I can’t go out in this!’ he’d said, holding up the black T-shirt.

I’d spent ages in town searching for it; they weren’t as easy to find as you’d think.

‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I said. ‘It’s as plain as I could find.’

‘Exactly. People’ll know we got it on the cheap – it hasn’t got a label.’

‘Course it’s got a label. I didn’t steal it!’

He rolled his eyes – always so dramatic.

‘Not that kind of label, Mum.’

I’d thought myself lucky that he still spoke to me. Anne Marie from the forum said that before her daughter, Ashley, went to prison, she barely spoke to her. She knew she was hiding something because she’d rush straight upstairs after coming home. Drugs were to blame for what she did, Anne Marie says. Makes them secretive, erratic . I’ll have to ask her what drugs they were because secretive and erratic isn’t a combination I’ve ever heard of.

‘Something’s burning, Mum,’ says Craig.

His voice is so different now: deeper, confident. Perhaps that’s how he needed to be in there. Especially after what happened to him for the first five years.

‘Oh, good grief,’ I say.

I open the oven and luckily find that only the edges of the crispy pancakes have caught. I plate them and pick off the burnt bits. They’re probably better than the food he’s been used to.

I put it on a tray and carry it through.

‘Good old crispy pancakes!’ he says. ‘I’m surprised you can still buy them. They’re so seventies.’

‘Some things never change, Son.’

‘You not having any?’

‘I’m too excited to eat.’

I watch as he layers up his fork.

‘Oh, man, that’s hot,’ he says with a mouth full. He chews it quickly and swallows. ‘I’d forgotten what really hot food was like.’

I pat his shoulder; I’m hovering near the doorway, unsure what to do. He’s going to get fed up of me if I carry on like this.

‘I’ll get you a drink.’

I fill a tumbler with water. It’s so strange having someone else in the house. It’s like the place has come back to life – that the wallpaper and the carpets aren’t as drab as they were yesterday.

‘Here you are, love.’

He raises his eyebrows briefly.

‘Don’t suppose you have any beers in? Haven’t had one of those in a while.’

‘No, Son. And it’s only four o’clock.’

We sit together in companionable silence. His prison programme has finished and Tipping Point ’s just started. His eyes glaze over as the theme tune ends. This is the life I’m used to, but I don’t think it’s going to be enough for him. It might be like going from one prison to another. I’m itching to get on to my computer and tell my friends that he’s home, but I can’t just go and sit in the corner – not on his first day back. I get the notifications on my phone. There are twenty-three so far, but it would be inappropriate to talk about him while he’s still in the room. I can catch up with them all later.

The letterbox sounds. There’s a burning smell.

I rush to the hall, where a scrunched-up piece of newspaper smoulders on the wooden floor. I pour the jug of water I keep on the window sill over it. I hadn’t put the litter tray down… I hadn’t wanted Craig to see the reality so soon. He’s only been home three hours.

Everyone on the street will know now – it’s like that around here. I walk calmly back into the living room and draw the curtains.

‘What was that?’ says Craig.

‘Just takeaway flyers,’ I say. ‘I wish they’d stop wasting the paper.’

‘I can smell burning.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s only the oven – I forgot to turn it off.’

His plate is clean, and the knife and fork are at six o’clock. At least he’s retained his manners.

‘Why’ve you closed the curtains?’

‘Didn’t want the light to get in your eyes while we watch telly.’

We both know it’s a lie; the sun isn’t showing itself today.

I take the tray from his lap and place it next to the sink. I’ll wash it up later; there’s no point wasting hot water on a few dishes.

I thought we might’ve had at least one evening with a bit of peace. My son spent all that time in prison when they should have been targeting the real killer. It might be seventeen years too late, but I’ll prove them all wrong. I’ve been searching for the man named Pete Lawton for so many years now. He worked at the Anderton & Campbell garage on Poulton Street. Craig had given the police the details of where he was when Lucy disappeared, but the police couldn’t find a man by that name who worked there. I’ve written to every Peter Lawton I can find the address of. I’ve only had one reply. It was from a Mrs B. Lawton, telling me that her husband had passed away, he’d never set foot in Preston, and had certainly never been a mechanic.

At first, I was excited by my search, but after all these years, I’m beginning to lose hope. I’ve messaged twenty-three Peter Lawtons on Facebook – most have ignored me, but there are three who have yet to open the message. They thought Craig was making him up, but I knew my son wouldn’t invent something like that. And the truth will always find a way of finding us, won’t it?

Car headlights dance across my bedroom curtains. It’s quiet and I feel safe with Craig in the house. It’s like our roles are reversed. I was meant to keep him safe – it should’ve been an easy job, but I couldn’t even get that right. It can’t be because I brought Craig up on my own – my mother did a good job with us – my brother and I have never been in trouble, unless you count my getting pregnant while unmarried, but that’s not even unusual these days.

I wonder if my father’s even alive. Mum said he was around for the first few weeks of my life then scarpered . She’d say it was history repeating itself, but she’d be wrong. I never told Craig’s father he had a son. Not straight away, at least.

Perhaps my brother managed to trace our dad, but never told us. ‘He’s got ambition, that one,’ Mum said about Philip. ‘But you’ve got the brains. You could really do something with your life, Erica. Not like I did with mine.’

She said it as though bringing us up on her own was a cross she had to bear, but it wasn’t as bad as that. She never made it feel that way.

I turn on to my side, punching the pillow until it’s plump. I feel a little better knowing I put the litter tray under the letterbox after Craig turned in. When I went upstairs, I listened at his door for a few moments before knocking.

‘Come in, Mum,’ he shouted.

I opened his door and he was tucked up in bed, his covers across his chest and his arms out either side. He was holding a book from the bookcase on the landing.

‘Which one have you chosen?’ I said, excited as I’d read them all before I put them there.

‘ The Da Vinci Code .’