The Mother

Joan took her grandmother’s silken handkerchief, gave it two quick dabs on her tongue, and pressed it to his cheek. She chastised herself in noting the fact that, for the first time in as long as she could remember, he didn’t flinch. His mind was elsewhere. And, in any case, as if such a thing should matter on a day like this! It was a day for the passing on of heirlooms and so, with two swift movements of thumb and forefinger, she folded it quarter size and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit. His suit! Goodness, when had Michael last worn a suit? She wished his father was here to see him, was here to share the throng of family and friends today, lustily sing alongside her, and break the quiet tonight. It was a day for singing and sharing. Instinctively she turned towards the photograph on the mantelpiece. Oh, George, she sighed.

In a quarter of an hour they’d be due at the church. It would be filling up by now, friends and family gathering in awkward groups, the men to exchange thoughts on reliable A-roads and, with conspiratorial twinkles of pride and slightly louder voices, unmarked shortcuts. She was happy to be missing this part of the ritual, never quite being sure whether the point was to take delight in arriving quickly or to play up the travails of unannounced traffic lights and inscrutable one-way systems; whether the triumph lay in avoiding any sign of battle or ploughing straight through one.

The car would be here presently. It was just she and him in the front room, just a mile to the church and his new life. And it was a new life. She’d seen other mothers crumple, mothers who’d thought their sons would always be theirs, she’d seen them bend, never stand fully upright again. Well, not her. She’d be straight-backed in the butcher’s, proudly tall in the chemist’s, and tell the world with a smile just how pleased she was for him. She’d miss seeing him, of course she would, but there was no use in moping under the misapprehension that he wouldn’t be happier in his new home. You don’t want to be worrying about me, Michael, she said. I know we’ll meet again soon enough.

Where was the car? Michael’s best man had arranged that it would be with them by now. Mustn’t worry, she thought. Sean had always been a grand friend, dependable as they come, and he wasn’t going to let anyone down on an occasion like this. Even as she thought back to the time Michael had first brought him round to the house, and Sean had mapped out a square metre in the back garden and offered her son first use of the magnifying glass and insect book, she heard two cars draw to a halt. Sean and the others made their way up the garden path. Here we go then, Michael, she said with a deep breath. The doorbell rang. They came inside and, after brief conversation, Joan, Michael, Sean and the rest trooped down to the road. Mother and son travelled in the first car, best man and company followed behind.

As the car drove past the playing fields, a young boy slid down the slide. Joan smiled a sunny smile and then her face clouded. She had tried never to pay too much mind to Michael’s betrothed, and she wasn’t going to start today. No, not even today George, she murmured pre-emptively. Take everyone as you find them, he would say. That’s the trouble, George, she thought. I do. Oh, she could see the attraction all right, and in a curious way Michael’s weakness only served to confirm in her eyes his becoming a man, but you could bet the family silver she’d be off to snare her next catch even before the echo of the church bells faded. What a picture she’d be today, she thought, reproving tsk on the tip of her tongue. There she’d stand, down the front, dress chosen for maximum attention, with a slice of onion beneath her glove should she need help in provoking the requisite moist eyes for the benefit of the gallery. She would, George, she insisted. You know she would. And all the while she’d be looking around the congregation plotting her next move.

Would any of his old girlfriends be there? Never easy to see an old love move on like this. Poor Sarah the teenage sweetheart, she’d be there of course, despite herself as always. So many years together, the script for their inevitable marriage had been inwardly rehearsed by everyone except Michael. Or, rather, he had rehearsed it, but then suddenly found it dull and uninspiring and left it torn in two. Yes, Sarah would need a little support today. No doubt that new young man at the library would cast himself in the role of selfless hero. She could see him now, protectively clasping his colleague’s heaving shoulder, then pressing her streaming face into the sanctuary of his chest, gently stroking the back of her head, all the while sweeping his eyes across the assembled masses to ensure they could admire his expression of pained nobility. Oh, she knew his sort all right, the sort drawn to grief like a shark to blood. How could he let pass an opportunity like this? He’d string her along just sufficiently to see her hair unpinned, tell her it fell across the sheet with the golden arc of a sunset, then later cry that he knew he couldn’t hope to compete with the memory of the man who’d moved on. There had only been Michael, he’d say, would only ever be Michael, and she’d know he was right and blame herself and absolve him and leave him free to pick up a fresh scent with a clear conscience. Poor Sarah. How many times had she pictured Michael standing at the top of an aisle dressed as smartly as he was today, pictured him smiling broadly for her benefit, her assurance, as she processed with shy smile and proud father towards him? And who was to say, even after today’s ceremony left her fairytale impossible, even after she’d seen him alone at the top of an aisle waiting for a vicar to announce him locked in eternal embrace with someone else, she wouldn’t still picture it tomorrow?

Back at the house, Joan had pictured crowds lining the streets for the whole of the route, well wishers turning out to acknowledge today’s return of one of their own before he set off again for pastures new. But, she reflected as the car turned into the avenue of yews, there had only been the child in the playing fields. And now, to her alarm, everyone was standing outside the church. She’d imagined they’d all be inside this close to the service, had forgotten they'd probably want to let Michael in first. She eyed them with trepidation. So many little glances to acknowledge, so many guardians of propriety to please, when, she suddenly realised, all she wanted to do was sit in the car and hold her boy. Or scream. Scream and scream until George raised himself from his endless sleep in the adjacent churchyard and took her home. But she didn’t scream. Instead, she lightly pressed the brim of her hat between her palms and patted the back of her hair and said they’re all waiting for you, Michael. Everyone had turned to look as the car’s heavy engine announced their arrival and then everyone had immediately looked away. It was as though they thought that if they turned swiftly enough, then the car might not have been there at all. It drew to a halt. Right then, Michael, this is it. Time you were off, she whispered quietly to her son. She said it a little sternly, offhandedly, as though she were doing no more than encourage a reluctant young boy to head through the door to the playgroup, or step through the rear doors of the minibus to join the nervously eager faces tightly clutching newly bought rucksacks and singing ‘Campfire’s Burning’, or assure a pale-faced teenager that he’d done all the revision he could and just take a deep breath before you start and all will be well, or a few months later thrust into his hand a carrier bag full of teabags and Marmite and dried pasta and tell him he’d be welcome home any time but best give it a full couple of months first, best give himself a chance to settle and then he’d quickly realise he was surrounded by the most likeminded, most exciting people he’d ever met and most likely he wouldn’t ever want to come home again! and he’d smile the nervy smile which was meant to assure her but which she knew was no more sincere than if the boy walking into playgroup had been grown up enough to disguise his thoughts and turn and grin. But there was no nervous smile today. The heavy engine, which had been ticking over in virtual silence, stopped. A man opened the boot and other men gathered round. The boot indeed! What do you call the back door in one of these things, Michael? she asked, but he was already leaving. Even as she watched, even as he was still within arm’s reach and she could, if she wanted, cling on and hold him close and never, ever let him go, he slid with remorseless ease out through the door and, with a momentary muffled knock, onto the shoulders of the four men.