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41

Extract from Nancy Brigstocke’s notebook – October 1998

…
there was no feeling in her that I could see: a complete lack of empathy. I wonder whether it’s ever really possible to feel another person’s suffering. Perhaps I am asking too much. All the same, I’d hoped for something. Some words that might have shown an attempt to understand my loss. She said: ‘Sorry. I wish he hadn’t done it.’ What did that mean? Did she wish that someone else had risked their life instead? Did she wish Jonathan was still alive? But she didn’t say that.

I have played her words over and over in my head, trying to make sense of them. Sometimes I wonder if they slipped out from somewhere deep inside. I wonder if they were a confession: whether she wished her son had been left to drown. Is that possible? I try to imagine how a mother could want her child to lose their life. It happens, doesn’t it? Mothers kill their children through neglect. They put their own needs above those of their children. They forget about their responsibilities. It happens, you read about it. And she was guilty of neglect; why else would her five-year-old son be afloat in the sea alone? Why didn’t she run in to save him?

When we met, I had already discovered that she and Jonathan had been intimate, yet she told me they had never met before that day. But hadn’t they been staying in the same small holiday resort? And she repeated the lie: ‘I had never seen him before.’ She is a liar. I could have told her I had seen the photographs, but I didn’t. I didn’t have the strength for confrontation and besides, what would have been the point? It wouldn’t bring him back. It took all my strength to stay upright, standing next to her at my son’s grave. I was cold. I was exhausted. I had wanted her to give me something. I wanted to see her son, and I did find the strength to ask for that. I hoped that we would meet again and that the next time she would bring him with her, but she refused. There was no other meeting. I never saw her again and I never saw the child who was only alive because of my boy.

I remember how her cheeks glowed pink from the cold, shimmering with health, and I envied her that too, the heat coming off her. The sweat on her lip and her shiny skin. There was heat but no warmth. Her blood is too cold to ever understand what it feels like to have a stranger tell you your child is dead, to not be with your son at the moment he needs you most, at the moment he is crying out for you. And you cannot help him, you cannot hold him, you cannot tell him that it will be all right, that you are there. I wasn’t there to hold Jonathan, to stroke his head, to kiss him and tell him I loved him. Only if that happens to you can you really understand what it is like.

Her little boy is running around above ground while mine lies rotting beneath. She didn’t even look at Jonathan’s stone, at the words we’d had carved into it: ‘He was our Angel.’ She didn’t look down. She hadn’t brought flowers. Why did she even bother to come? I wish her child knew that he owed his life to my son. I wish he knew that, if it wasn’t for Jonathan, he wouldn’t be here.

42

Summer 1993

She remembers sitting up, shouting Nicholas’s name. She had fallen asleep on her towel, lying on her front, her feet facing the sea. She had been exhausted. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she had allowed herself to lie down with her head resting on her hands because Nicholas had been content.

She’d given in and bought him the red-and-yellow rubber dinghy he’d seen on their first day, when she and Robert had held his hands and they’d walked along the promenade. On that first afternoon she and Robert had steered Nick away from the inflatable dolphins, sharks and boats, and bought him a bucket and spade and a small truck to play with on the sand. He had cried for the dinghy, and on that last day she had given in. It would make him happy, and if he was happy, she could rest.

She looked up now and again to check he was OK and he was: sitting in the dinghy on the sand, happy at being the captain of his ship. But the next time she looked, the dingy was bobbing around in the waves. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She stood up and called his name. The waves were starting to get frisky, and they rocked the boat, back and forth, but he was still smiling, still happy. And there were others in the water, diving in and out of the waves. No one seemed worried. She marched towards the sea, her eyes never leaving Nick, calling his name, louder each time, but he didn’t look up. He was lost in his own little world. Then frisky became rough, and the waves swelled and tugged at the boat.

He was out of his depth and being pulled further by the sea, out to where the ocean became dark, then black. The sun had gone and the wind had come up.

‘Help!’ she shouted, running now. ‘Help me!’ she screamed, shivering, terrified. She remembers her words with shame: ‘Help me,’ not ‘Help my child.’ ‘Help
me
.’ She ran into the water, up to her waist, but it wasn’t her who swam out to her child. She knew she wasn’t a strong enough swimmer and she was scared. She was scared of drowning. She forces herself to admit it.

She dissects that moment, sparing herself nothing. She didn’t risk her own life for her child’s. She knew they would both drown if she swam out. She’d always been frightened in the sea – didn’t even like putting her head under. It’s men who drown rescuing children and dogs, not women. Fathers, not mothers. Strange that, but she can’t remember ever hearing about a woman jumping in to rescue a drowning child, though she can recall plenty of occasions when men had thrown themselves into roaring rivers or dirty canals, not thinking about themselves, driven on by blind courage. There must be women who have done it, but she can’t remember reading about them. So, she is not quite alone in lacking the bravery to go in after her son that day. If it had been a burning building, or a window ledge at the top of a skyscraper or a madman pointing a gun, it would have been different. Then she would have found the courage. She would have run through fire, risked falling to her death, jumped in front of a bullet for Nick … but the sea? The sea had thwarted her.

And then he raced in, brushing her aside as he ran past, diving like a lifeguard into the waves. Why were there no fucking lifeguards on this beach? There was not even a flag. He was the one who responded to her screams for help. ‘No!’ the word left her mouth before she could stop it. A howl which no one understood. She didn’t want it to be him. Not him, please. She watched as he swam towards the dinghy. It was tipping back and forth wildly: Nicholas was trying to stand up. Oh God, please don’t stand up, you’ll fall in. She tried to gesture with her hands for Nick to sit down, but he was too far out to see her.

Others were standing with her now. A couple with a toddler and another family, English, kind, the mother’s arm around Catherine. And Spanish families too, all gripped by the sight of the little boy bobbing dangerously out to sea and the young man striking out to reach him. She remembered how strong he was, and she knew he would make it to Nicholas. There would be no stopping him. And he did and the people around her smiled and the English mother squeezed her shoulder and smiled too, but she didn’t smile. She felt sick as she watched.

He was swimming back, dragging Nicholas in the dinghy behind him. It was hypnotic, watching him: one-armed, one hand, keeping going. It was heroic. He was brave. She was thinking this when she heard the fear in the voices around her. A gabble of Spanish and then the English father: ‘He’s in trouble, they need help!’ He was about to run in himself when a younger Spanish man beat him to it. Not as young as Jonathan, but still young. Late twenties? Her age? He swam out, grabbed the rope and turned, swimming towards the shore with Nicholas safely behind him. For a while it looked as if they weren’t moving, the waves beating them back, the current pulling them away from the shore, but he managed it, this other Spanish man. He moved closer and closer to the shore and to safety. And everyone looked at him and Nick, not Jonathan. They all assumed he was OK.

And at last Nicholas was on the beach and she scooped him out of the dinghy, wrapped him in a towel and held him close. He was shivering from cold, his chattering teeth rendering him speechless. He buried his head in his mother’s chest and she pulled the towel right up over his head, like a hood, protecting him, holding him. Only then did she turn and see the young Spanish man and the English dad swim out to Jonathan, who had been left behind. He didn’t seem to be making any effort to get to shore. He was flapping his arms, pushing down at the sea. It was all in slow motion.

People were speaking to her in Spanish, kind voices, smiling, stroking Nicholas’s head, happy at the rescue of this little boy. Then the English mother pressed against her ear and whispered:

‘Don’t let him see. He mustn’t see.’ And people gathered round to screen Nicholas’s view of the beach. Catherine turned to see Jonathan’s body being carried from a boat. A speed boat had come, but too late. She watched as Jonathan’s body was laid out on the sand. Then she looked away and shielded Nicholas.

‘You’re hurting me,’ were his first words.

She hadn’t realized how hard she had been pressing her son against her. Other mothers had formed a barrier to protect the child from seeing the body of the man who had saved him.

‘You should take him back to your hotel,’ said the English woman, her hand on Catherine’s arm. ‘Where’s your stuff?’

She had pointed to her towel and bag, and the woman went and gathered them up. Hurriedly, Catherine had put a T-shirt on Nicholas, then taken his hand.

‘Shall we go and see if the hotel will do you a hot chocolate?’ She was shocked by the calm in her voice.

‘Yeah,’ he said brightly, and he picked up the rope to take the dinghy with them.

‘Let’s leave it here, Nick. We’re going home tomorrow. We won’t be able to take it on the plane. Someone else can play with it.’

She had braced herself for tears, but he was fine about it. Forgotten already. The novelty worn off. He didn’t mention it or the incident again. Ever. She waited for it. For the memory of his fear, of the realization that he was too far out and she wasn’t with him, that the sea was too rough, that he had been rescued, yet it never came. He never said a word about it. He was freezing, he had said that, but he never said that he thought he would drown. He never said he was scared. Perhaps he hadn’t been. He’d been cold and he’d wanted to get back to the beach, then someone came and got him. Simple as that. He had never really feared for his life.

As they walked up the steps from the beach, Catherine looked over her shoulder one last time and saw Jonathan lying on the sand, covered in two towels. Dead. She knew he was dead. And what did she feel? She presses herself.
What did you feel?

43

Summer 2013

A story has been playing on the news all day: a story of children who have died of shame, unable to tell their parents about pictures they have posted on the Internet to predatory adults who pretended to be their friends. Some of these children are as young as eight. This has been the soundtrack as I have pored through photographs of Jonathan as a child, the news story running through my head as I search for the picture which best captures my son – the one which shows him as I wish him to be remembered. If Jonathan were a child today, I don’t believe he would have become a victim of those monsters. He would never have died of shame, because he knew he could always talk to his mother. He knew he could tell her anything and she would never love him any less. They were as close as a mother and son could be.

So close that it was Nancy, not me, who was the one to tell him the facts of life.

His mother, not his father. You’d think it would have been easier for me, but it was Nancy he listened to, Nancy he talked to. When I tried to tackle the subject with him he’d stuck his fingers in his ears and la-la-la’d so loudly he’d drowned me out. Nancy and I had laughed about it afterwards: how funny he was, how silly. He’d hit puberty early, he was only eleven, but he needed to know what was what so she said she’d do it. I remember thinking, good luck, he’ll be even more embarrassed listening to his mum talk about sex. He wasn’t.

She’d sat him down and made him look her in the eye and told him there was nothing to be frightened or shy about. It was natural. One day he would meet the right person and then his uncomfortable urges would make sense. There was nothing to be ashamed of, he should feel free to explore his own body. In fact she encouraged him to do so and told him that if he was ever worried about anything he could always talk to her. I remember a few occasions when I walked past his closed bedroom door and heard the murmur of their voices. He knew he could trust her and I knew not to intrude on them. Jonathan could be sure that, no matter what he did, his mother would always understand. Our son would have been safe from Internet predators like me.

I have lied about my age to lure someone younger than me into being my friend. I have pretended to be someone I am not.

Last night I posted up the rest of the photographs. No child should have to see their mother like that. What would it do to you, seeing your own mother exposed like that, everything on show: the shame, the filth? I doubt whether he’ll ever be able to erase those images from his mind. But there’s no going back now. We are on a mission.

Little Nick. He is waiting for me – he wants to know more about the photos. Who took them? And so I tell him. Then I post up the picture I have chosen of Jonathan. A little boy aged ten, wearing the sweater his grandmother knitted him for Christmas. He looks as pleased as punch, chest out, showing off the Ninja Turtle she’d stitched into the front. And I add the words:

Jonathan Brigstocke
26 June 1974 – 14 August 1993
A perfect stranger who died saving your life

It will take him a while to get his head around Jonathan’s death – his young friend who never was – to get his head around everything I have posted up for him. The book will help him; I have given him page numbers so this time there’ll be no chance of him failing to recognize her or himself. Nancy must have her say too. Perhaps he can come up with some answers to her questions.