Are You My Mother? (31 page)

Denise rushed out and kissed me on the cheek. I’d forgotten how pretty she was, with blonde straggly hair and a soft Welsh accent, as different as she possibly could have been from her beautiful olive skinned, dreadlocked daughter. She had split up with Suzanne’s father years ago and, until meeting Greg, had brought up Suzanne single handedly.

I should have made more of an effort to be friends with her, I realised, with the benefit of hindsight – we’d had a lot in common, and plenty of opportunities to spend time together. She’d seemed to like me, even though I was so much younger than her. But back then I’d been far more readily poleaxed with shyness, and I remembered how in control she always appeared; how I’d been intimidated by her composure, next to my own haphazard, untrammelled attempts at parenting. Plus Stella and Suzanne would probably have had fifty fits at the thought of their two sole guardians in cahoots.

‘
It’s really lovely to see you again, Emma. I’ve thought of you often,’ Denise said, squeezing my arm. ‘What can I get you to drink - Greg makes a mean G&T, and there’s champagne, or wine, or a soft drink if you prefer?’

‘
Champagne, please. Thanks for inviting me – I was looking forward to seeing you again too.’

Ben came back into the room holding a doll in his hand, to which he was, somewhat indiscreetly, trying to draw my attention by tapping it insistently on my leg. I crouched down so that I was at eye-level with him.

‘
Who’s this, then?’

‘
It’s Jessie, from Toy Story. She guards rooms when nobody’s not in them.’

‘
Really? Can I have a look?’ I took the doll and scrutinised it carefully. Jessie had a big surprised face and such enormously round staring eyes that it looked as if she was still suffering the effects of a particularly unpleasant encounter with some PCP. ‘Ooh, she’s lovely, isn’t she?’

‘
Yeah but Buzz is better, ‘cos he’s a boy. I want Buzz for Christmas:
To Imfinity Am Eyonne!
’ he suddenly shrieked, swooping Jessie through the air and rushing off into the kitchen, whacking Stella in the shins with Jessie’s hard little cowboy boots on the way.

‘
What did he say?’ Stella turned to Suzanne for a translation, rubbing her leg.

‘
To Infinity and Beyond
– obviously. It’s what Buzz Lightyear says; don’t you know anything?’

‘
Not about small children, no.’

It was true, I reflected. Stella probably hadn’t encountered anyone that age since her own kindergarten classmates, and she was gazing after Ben now with a bemused expression. Bemused, and with faint but definite overtones of horror and disgust. Uh oh, I thought. This could be where we discover that Stella and kids do not mix.

A short, squat man with a shock of auburn hair and a bright red friendly face appeared, wearing a white chef’s apron and a tartan paper crown from a Christmas cracker. He was holding four flutes of champagne, which he distributed, keeping one for himself. ‘Hi, Stella, how are you? Hello, you must be Emma. I’m Greg. Sorry I didn’t come out earlier; I was at a crucial stage with my gravy. Anyway, cheers, all.’ Denise and Ben joined us; Denise with a glass of wine and Ben with an orange plastic beaker. ‘Glad you could come. Merry Christmas.’

We all raised our glasses, including Ben. ‘Merry Christmas!’ As the first pale amber bubbles began to fizz down my throat, I began to relax.

‘
So,’ Greg said at lunch, as he carved the turkey and everyone grappled with serving spoons and bouncing Brussels sprouts, ‘Do either of you know this part of the world at all?’

I couldn’t help a guilty blush spreading over my face, which I was sure clashed nastily with my red paper hat. ‘No – well, no, I’ve never been here before. I used to know someone who lived in Teffont though. Is that near here?’ For one mad minute I fantasised that Teffont turned out to be down the road, and I could go and quiz Ann Paramor’s old neighbours, in the middle of the Queen’s Speech or as they opened their presents, as to her whereabouts. I wondered if Rose Cottage had been like this one; warm and festive and welcoming.

‘
Who was that, then?’ asked Stella, pouring so much gravy over her roast potatoes that I felt like throwing them a life raft. Gravy was not a substance which featured much in post-parental Victor cuisine, and Stella was making up for it now.

‘
Oh, um, just a girl who was on my aromatherapy course,’ I lied unconvincingly.

‘
Teffont’s on the other side of Salisbury. About, what, twelve or fifteen miles from here?’ Greg looked at his wife for confirmation and she nodded.

‘
Nice little place.’

‘
Urrrgh! This is
‘gusting
!’ Ben had taken a forkful of his turkey, and had mistakenly ingested some stuffing as well. He began spluttering and making faces like Tom Hanks in
Big.
Denise reached over and slid the offending stuffing off his plate and onto her own.

‘
Gone now, Bence. Here, you love potatoes and turkey and sausages, don’t you?’

‘
No. I hate them. I want Shreddies instead.’ Ben stared belligerently at his plate, and Suzanne narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, just eat it, you little snot. It’s Christmas.’

‘
Suzanne! That’s not very constructive, or polite.’ Denise began to cut up a chipolata, which she put on a clean side plate for her son.

Trying to diffuse the momentary tension, I turned to Suzanne. ‘So, remind me what the age gap between you and Ben is? There’s nearly ten years between me and Stella. It’s weird remembering that it used to be like that, Stella spitting out her food and having tantrums; and now look at us….nothing’s changed!’

Stella reached over and pretended to slap me. She seemed happy; pink-cheeked and pretty, with her paper hat listing lopsidedly over her face.

Suzanne looked at her little brother with a mixture of irritation and affection. ‘Well, there’s fifteen years between us. I can’t quite visualise you and me ever sharing a flat together, Bence, can you?’

‘
No. I can’t,’ said Ben with dignity. ‘Can I have some ketchup with my sausages?’

‘
No,’ chorussed Greg, Denise and Suzanne. Ben stuck out his lower lip but kept eating.

‘
Are you two real sisters then, or do you only have one parent in common? You look about as alike as Suzanne and Ben.’ Greg was scrutinising us in turn.

‘
We’re real sisters,’ said Stella.

Suzanne, who already knew that I was adopted - and that my best friend used, allegedly, to be a gorilla - kept her mouth shut, but raised her eyebrows at Stella when she thought nobody else was looking. Stella took a forkful of gravy-sodden roast potato, and made a face back at her. I just grinned into my turkey and didn’t disagree.

After lunch and a walk, Ben conked out on the sofa, exhausted – ‘He’s been up since five o’clock,’ said Denise. Suzanne spirited Stella away upstairs, ostensibly to get her advice on whether to use chiffon or silk for next term’s college project, and Greg and Denise, refusing all offers of help clearing up, vanished into the kitchen.

I was left on my own in an armchair in front of the fire; contented, tipsy, and very, very full. Nonetheless, my hand kept snaking its way automatically into the colossal tin of Quality Streets next to me. I lay back, savouring the mingled tastes of toffee and chocolate melting on my tongue, and watched Ben sleep. His small face was lit up warm by the flickering orange flames, his mouth open and his lashes spiky on his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing was so peculiarly hypnotic that, within just a few minutes, my own eyelids had sunk closed, and I joined him in a melted-chocolate, holly-decorated sleep.

Chapter 26

For a split second, when I jerked awake again, I had the strangest sensation of having been whirled back in time. There was the sound of a child singing
Ba-Ba Black Sheep
, off-key. Adults chatting in the background; a giggle and a clink of glasses. Christmas carols swelling from the television set, soft choral melodies clashing with the tuneless nursery rhyme; and a blur of lights and twinkling ornaments from the tree in the corner. Delicious smells of pine, burning firewood, and roast turkey were wafting around the room, and it was already dark outside. The fire was dying down, and the lights were on low.

‘
Oh God,’ I thought with a start. ‘This is not my family.’ I sat up hastily, scattering the Quality Street wrappers which I had left shamefully strewn on my lap, and wiped away the seepage of dribble which was running down my chin. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I’d probably been snoring too.

Ben popped up next to me. ‘Hello Emma. It’s me, Benjamin Louis Hiscock. Will you read to me?’

‘
Sure, Ben. Why don’t you go and get a book?’

Denise appeared. ‘Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes. Did you have a nice nap?’

‘
I did, actually. But sorry, it was so rude of me, to crash out like that –‘

‘
Oh, not at all. I’m delighted that you feel comfortable enough here to fall asleep – besides, we’ve had a bit of a kip, too. Would you like a cup of tea and some Christmas cake? The girls are still upstairs. They’re allegedly working, but they think I don’t know that they’re smoking out of the window and listening to rap CDs.’

I laughed. ‘I’d love some tea, thanks.’ It was so wonderful to be looked after, waited on like this. To be brought cups of tea and cake, and fed nice meals. I hoped fervently that this is what it would be like when I found Ann Paramor: a chance to catch up on all the mothering arrears. The idea of somebody else, for example, doing my washing for me, was as tempting as a free weekend at a health spa.

Ben returned, climbed onto my lap, and plonked down a
Spot the Dog
book. I instinctively put one arm around him and began to read it aloud, not taking in the words at all, just relishing the long-dormant sensation of warm attentive child. Now that I thought about it, it was odd, I mused: whenever I started to yearn for the sensation of being mothered, I always seemed to do something which put me in the role of a mother myself. When I thought about Ann Paramor, for example, I would then, more often than not, find myself going through Stella’s sock drawer and matching up her odd socks; or baking a cake; or having a sudden strong urge to ring her and check that she was dressed warmly enough. How sad was that?

I desperately hoped that finding Ann Paramor - whatever the result - would nip that particular behavioural tic in the bud. Or rather, deadhead it altogether. No wonder I cramped Stella’s style at times.

‘
More,’ demanded Ben when I’d finished, sliding off my lap and over to a low bookshelf. ‘I get anozzer one.’

Almost before his sticky hand landed on the book’s spine, I knew what it was. That sky-blue and red cover, the familiar little bird sitting on the lugubrious dog’s head. ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, leaping up and practically grabbing it out of his hands. ‘
Are You My Mother?
I
love
this book!’

Denise came in with a mug of tea and a slice of rich, black Christmas cake, which she set down on the floor next to my armchair. ‘Yes, it’s a fabulous book, isn’t it? Bence loves it – and it’s one of only a few that I actually still enjoy reading to him.’

‘
I used to read it to Stella when she was younger than Ben.’ I felt excited, like being reunited with a long-lost friend. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s get stuck in.’

Ben obligingly climbed back up again, and I turned to the first page, smiling with glee as I saw all the little details of the story I’d forgotten: the mother bird’s red and white checked headscarf, the way she straddled her skinny bird legs over the enormous egg, the look of immense self-satisfaction on her face as she waited for it to hatch.

I read on, almost forgetting that Denise, not Mum, had brought me tea and cake; almost forgetting that Ben wasn’t Stella aged three. By the time the baby bird had asked the kitten, the hen, the dog and cow if any of them were his mother, the pathos of the story had reached down the years and twined a noose of nostalgic sadness around my throat, threatening to choke me. He was so lost and alone, and I already knew he was so desperate to find out who his mother was, that he would soon start asking rusty old cars, boats and aeroplanes. I looked around the room, half-expecting to see him sitting on top of the Christmas tree or hopping over the hearth, but the room was the same as before.

I had to stop for a minute.

‘
Go on,’ said Ben.

‘“
I did have a mother,” said the baby bird. “I know I did. I have to find her. I will. I WILL!”’
Tears welled in my eyes, making the words blur and dance on the page. Even though I knew the book had a happy ending, when I got to the bit where the bird looked up into the sky, saw an enormous jumbo jet and called out, “
Here I am, Mother,”
my voice was wobbling so much that I could barely continue. By the final page, I was all but sobbing out each word, and tears were rolling unrestrained down my face and on to the top of Ben’s silky head.

When I looked up, Stella, Suzanne, Denise and Greg were standing staring at me, concerned and embarrassed. Stella leaped forward, kneeling down and putting both her hands on the fatly upholstered arm of the chair. ‘Em! What’s the matter?’

I took off my glasses and wiped my eyes. Then I replaced them, and gently slid Ben off my lap. Ben’s eyes were as big and saucery as Jessie the doll’s.