CHAPTER 7
I was suddenly standing on a hill, all views open to me. There was something very real to what Mary was prodding at.

I had a ghost of a memory, nothing concrete, but it hinted at more. For once, the pattern was showing itself. If I had things like that unspeaking in the back of my mind, I had others. Mary had set her focus on my ninth year, based on my medical records and the death of my father, and I felt there might be something more there. Typical; the more you communicate, the more you need communication.

I didn’t speak much with Jane. There didn’t seem to be much point, and my mother had taken everything over, as I half expected and, yes, she did leave a nightdress, two actually, on my bed. They went into a drawer.

I made a point of lunching with Pete, and Dave if he was about, at the University, and I went for a chat with the Faculty head. The incident with Abigail had alerted me to the fact that the perceptions of others could be dangerous things. Alerted me, that is, when Dave had rubbed my face in it. I could see the structure of that, and realised that I needed to be careful, for Pete’s sake.

That was a joke, by the way..

Seriously, if it became suspected that I was involved in some form of favouritism, it might harm his studies. I needed to explain that I was a friend, and make sure I was seen not to be involved in his assessment in any way.

It was all very simple, in the end; I declared an interest, I was barred from any access to his work, and we had lunch. I ended up paying. He likes port. It was still a tense day, and when I got home (‘home’?) I made a decision.

Mother insisted I tuck a napkin in at the neck.

“John, I would never have cooked spaghetti if I had known you would be wearing silk. The sauce would ruin that blouse! And would you mind removing your heels in the house?”

We ate in silence for a little while, and then she simply said “Thank you, John. It has been an awfully long time since I last saw Laura”

I don’t know how long I was blanked out for that time, but my lap was full of spaghetti.

“Mother, I have no idea at all what you are on about”

“Of course you have, dear. I thought you’d remember it well, seeing as your friend is back”

She continued calmly winding her spaghetti into her spoon as I gaped again.

“When you were a little boy, you would dress up all the time. I remember you making a mask by knotting my headscarf. When I asked if you were Batman, you sad ‘No, Catwoman’

“You always dressed up…and you chose that name, and it was only after that night that you stopped. Stopped doing it at home, or in front of people.”

I pressed her for more, but she was adamant that the past was over and done, and we were living in the here and now, and other platitudes that added up to a very clear refusal to talk.

“You know, that blouse would hang so much better with breasts. I must get you some…”

I suddenly realised my mother was crying, and the weeping became sobs, and she insisted I wrap a clean napkin between us to prevent tears ruining my best grey silk when I held her.

She would not tell me what had started it all off. None of this was making any sense to me at all.

She wound down from the sobs. “Laura, darling, could you please go and get changed for bed? I really need to cuddle up, and that silk will be ruined. I will make cocoa.

I went and put on the long, pale blue cotton one, and my slippers, and wrapped a blanket over my shoulders. My mother was in much the same rig when I returned, and she had put some music on the stereo, syrupy stuff, Sibelius I think. She patted the sofa, and we cuddled together under the blanket with our mugs. Whatever her state of mind was, she was calmer talking to me like this, and I wouldn’t spoil it while it lasted.

She is my mother, and if I am capable, truly capable of love, it is her I keep it for.

“You always loved costumes, and games, but you were always the captive princess, and usually Peter the rescuing knight, or cowboy, or whichever role seemed to fit, and I worried at first that you would have problems at school, but you would laugh, and it was such a lovely sound, and I could always see how happy you were.

“I know I come across as a harridan at times…shush, don’t make false protestations, you never wanted to come back here. The thing is you are my child, only flesh of my flesh that I ever produced….”

She trailed off again, and this time the crying was awful. She caught her breath, eventually.

“You would have had a brother, that was the funny thing. He would have been happy with that.

“Laura, do you remember when you were seven, and you stayed with Aunty Hannah for a couple of weeks, at the caravan near Christchurch?”

There was a little quiver of memory there.

“Just about, Mum”

“I was in hospital, dear. I was miscarrying your brother”

I stayed with her till she calmed. She asked me to let her sleep on the sofa, to the sounds of two of her favourite Sibelius symphonies playing on ‘repeat’ at a low level. For an instant, I was reminded of Jane and her talking books, but this was different. I was indeed seeing further, and I knew that I had only ever loved, only did love, one of these women.

There was clearly more to this whole mess than anyone was telling me. The evening’s revelations alone were enough to rock my world. I had dressed down for my mother, in a dove grey silk blouse belted over a darker wool knee length skirt, with black tights and simple courts with a 2” heel, and had limited the makeup to just the basics, a bit of mascara and lippy, as I don’t have a heavy beard. My mother had smiled with genuine pleasure when she saw me, but it was only with the assistance of a couple of glasses of wine that she opened up.

I didn’t sleep well that night, and it was barely awake that I wandered into the kitchen to grab a cuppa.

“Morning Laura!”

Bugger. I was still in the nightgown.

“Mum, you will have to stop that. I am 31 years old, I have a Doctorate and I am called ‘John’ “

She just hugged me.

“When is Peter coming round? You haven’t said much apart from that he turned up at your college”

“Peter is…a little different, Mother. He’s been hurt.”

She went quiet again, looking at me.

“Not the only one, love”

Dave was picking me up that morning, as we intended to do a food run for Pete in the Volvo. We were also looking around at the prospect of an adapted car for him, as we hoped the Motability scheme would cover most of the costs. I dressed as quickly as I could to minimise my mother’s Laura-fixation, and was soon on my way to Southampton. Dave looked at me, and popped the glove box.

“There are some wet wipes in there, mate, you might want to clean off the mascara.”

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I was silent for a while then, not surprisingly. We got through the day, but I was on eggshells throughout. Too many secrets, too many changes, I was caught in turbulence and chaos is chaos. No patterns to focus on, no signposts.

Pete joined us after classes, and we headed out to Shirley where Harrison’s, the specialist car dealer, had what added up to a showroom. There was what looked like an ideal vehicle there, depending on how things went when Pete got his final fitting for what he was calling his tin leg.

A Citroen Berlingo van conversion, with sliding rear side doors, looked good. A side-mounted wheelchair hoist sorted the chair out, while he swung himself into the driver’s seat. It was an automatic, so the driving was one-footed. Even with the chair is place, there was still plenty of room for luggage, and a seat for a passenger.

“Not exactly a fanny magnet, is it?” laughed Pete wryly, “but at least I am someone able to drive when he’s legless!”

Believe it or not, we laughed at that, and I was left trying to work out how it was funny when he said it, but not when anyone else did.

The deal was done. Motability would confirm it, and Pete looked really upbeat. We ran out to Eastleigh to hit the supermarket, and loaded his freezer with the essentials. Martin was on the gate again, and smiled at me with real warmth. Especially when I remembered his name.

When we had unloaded the car, I sat and thought for a while. What had Dave done when I had told him about Jane? Invited me down to stay with him. When he popped into the toilet, I looked at Pete and said “Fancy a meal at ours tonight? Mum’s been asking after you.”

He looked a little closer at me, tight in the eyes, then a lot closer, and smiled.

“Will that be with Laura?”