LITMIR.BIZ

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displays. Neither of them did more than glance at me and I began to tell myself that maybe it would be all right.

      By quarter to one I was almost too drained to keep standing and I found myself looking at the clock every few seconds, sure it had stopped. Finally, it crept to one o’clock and, on the dot, Stella emerged. ‘Right, I’m starving and we close for an hour now, so why don’t you pop off?’

      As I crossed to the other side of the counter, she was fiddling with her hair and frowning down at a small notebook. But, before I could escape, she spoke. ‘Oh, Clare…’ I looked into her button brown eyes. ‘Now I know I said you could start properly next week, but…’ I froze, ‘… I wonder if you could do tomorrow morning too. Saturdays are always busy and we’ve had a load of last minute orders.’

      I managed to gasp out a, ‘Yes, that’s OK.’

      ‘And if you can do Monday to Wednesday next week that would be wonderful.’

      He must have been listening for the car because he was standing on the steps of Beldon House as we pulled into the driveway. I knew, of course, that he was thirteen now: I’d pored over each new set of photographs for hours. But the shock at his height and the sharp bones replacing the soft roundness in his face jolted through me all the same. His arm rose and then fell as I climbed from the car and he took a half step towards me. But the car door was comfortingly warm and I leant back against it smoothing my dress with damp hands.

      A deep breath. ‘Hello, Tommy.’

      His eyes flickered away and his hands pulled at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, dragging them out of shape. It was a habit the twins had shared, and I swallowed, trying to move the huge lump blocking my throat. Then I pushed myself forward, hands stretched out.

      On the step he was taller than me. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’ Stupid, stupid. I didn’t blame him for turning away without a word.

      Head lowered, he led the way through the hall to the kitchen. As we’d approached the house it looked the same as always – the same as it had been when Alice and I grew up here. Inside, the hall with its black and white tiles certainly hadn’t changed. Mum’s favourite vase, a big copper thing filled today with sunflowers, still stood on the table by the stairs and Alice had put a photo of Mum and Dad next to it. But, as Tommy threw open the kitchen door, I saw that a huge and lovely space, with the sun streaming through open French windows, had replaced the clutter of little rooms I remembered. Tommy slumped down at the table twisting open a can of Coke and watching as a line of fizz foamed down the side.

      Say something, do something for God’s sake. I glanced round. ‘Shall I make some tea, Alice?’

      But she wasn’t going to let me off that easily. ‘No you sit and talk. I’ll make it.’

      I pulled out a chair next to my son. One large hand, his nails chewed like mine, traced the grain of the table while the other turned the can round and round making a series of wet, sticky circles on the wood. He muttered something to the tabletop.

      ‘Sorry, Tommy. What did you say?’

      ‘Tom – everyone calls me Tom now.’

      ‘Oh yes, sorry, I should’ve remembered. You started putting Tom on your letters.’

      We both watched the can as he turned and turned it again.

      ‘Sorry… I’m sorry about not writing lately.’ His ears and the side of his jaw had flushed pink and I realised he thought I was telling him off for neglecting me. My throat throbbed.

      ‘That’s OK. I expect you’ve been busy.’ This was hopeless, hopeless. Say something sensible you stupid fool.

      Alice sat opposite plonking two mugs and a biscuit tin with a floral lid on the table. ‘Tell your mum about your music, Tom.’

      His voice was so low I could only make out odd words. Grades and examiners, and soon he stopped speaking and went back to playing with the can.

      ‘Would you like to be a musician?’ I said it softly, and for the first time he met my eye, nodding, before looking down to crush the sides of the can with a crack.

      ‘Tell you what. It’s too nice to sit inside. Will you show me the garden?’ I jumped up, hoping to make it impossible for him to refuse.

      We left Alice in the kitchen and my tall son strode down the tiled path so quickly that, as I tried to match his pace, my skirt caught on the overhanging plants and a sweet herby smell filled the air. Alice had worked magic on the garden too; its flower-filled lushness bore little resemblance to the vast expanse of lawn bordered by huge woody shrubs that I recalled. He led me to the far end where a bench overlooked a vista of fields. The sun was hot once more and the fields flared with the painful yellow of oilseed rape, dotted here and there with a flush of poppies. It reminded me of a Van Gogh painting – too bright, too hectic.

      I sat on the bench, but Tom stood by the low wall staring over the fields. His hair was a slightly darker blond than it had been when he was little. ‘I’m sorry I stopped writing to you,’ he said.

      ‘Tom, it really is OK. You don’t need to feel bad about anything.’

      ‘I was mad at you.’

      I gripped the bench, the rough wood biting into my palms. I wanted so much to help him. To tell him if he wanted to shout at me, to hit me, it was only his right.

      ‘You lied about me not being allowed to come and see you in prison. Mark’s dad’s a solicitor and he said.’

      How stupid we’d been. ‘You see, Tom, I didn’t want you to come there because Holloway’s not a very nice place and …’

      ‘That’s bollocks.’ His voice broke and the word hung in the air. I think he was as shocked as I was. ‘Sorry.’ When he turned I could see his eyes were glassy, and I was beside him, my arms round him, rubbing his stiff back. He was too big and too bony, but then I felt him relax, his head resting on my shoulder as he muttered again, ‘Sorry, sorry, Mum.’

      I led him to the bench and made him sit. He scrubbed his face ferociously, as I patted his other forearm and echoed his throat clearing and sniffing with my own small cough. ‘Tom.’ I laid my hand over his larger one. ‘You’ve got nothing, nothing at all, to say sorry to me for. I can’t make it right again, I know, but please don’t blame yourself for anything. All I want is for us to be friends.’ Even as I said it I knew I’d got it all wrong. But what would have been right?

      He looked up, and there in his clear grey eyes was my little lost Tommy. ‘OK, and if it’s all right with you, I want to live with you again. Alice says I can’t, but you are my mum aren’t you?’ The words came out in a rush and I guessed he’d prepared them.

      My own eyes filled with tears, but whether they were tears of joy at hearing the words I’d never dared hope he would say, or of pain that I couldn’t take him home right now, I didn’t know.

      Don’t lie to him again. ‘Well… Alice does have custody you know.’

      ‘Yes, but you’re my mum.’ His voice was hard.

      ‘And there’s nothing I want more than to have you with me all the time. But, you know, it’s going to take me a while to get settled. I’ve already found a job so that’s a good start. And, if it’s all right with you I want to see you as often as I can, because we need to get to know each other properly again. So will you be patient for just a while longer?’

      He jumped up and began pacing the little patio. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, disappointed, excited, or just too full of life and energy to sit still.

      When he turned to me, his eyes were shining. ‘One thing, one thing I’ve been thinking, is that I could help you.’

      ‘What do you mean, Tom?’ I loved saying his name.

      ‘You know, to show them they made a mistake; to show them it wasn’t your fault.’

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