Are You My Mother? Read Free

years ago. I did something terrible; something which helped me identify with the man on the train. I’d never told a soul, but in those first few months of bewildering bereavement, I used to wait until Stella was asleep; eleven, twelve o’clock, and then I would let myself out of the house, leaving her alone in there. The thought of her slight figure motionless under a Barbie duvet, the only living thing in the house, made me nearly physically sick with guilt – but I had to do it.
    It started with a craving for air, a longing to escape the stuffy confines of our recycled grief as we sat each night, wordless on the sofa, our eyes empty squares of flickering escapism. When Stella had finally, silently, trailed off to bed, I used to go and stand in the back garden, breathing in the dirty night air, listening for town foxes and cats being penetrated, wishing I could scream like that too.
    One night, before I knew what I was doing, I’d slunk like an intruder along the passage at the side of the house, unlocked the gate, and I was out. A rush of exhilarated freedom filled my lungs for a second, and I found myself walking away. It was eleven thirty, and most of the houses in our street were sealed for sleep, but a few had lights in bedroom windows. I stared at these, willing myself to be able to see in, to see parents getting ready for bed; to catch a glimpse of a mother stroking her daughter’s forehead, kissing her in her sleep. I could still feel the imprints of Mum’s kisses branding my own forehead; feel the memory of love, nurture not nature, but still as strong.
    That first night, I was only out for a few minutes. By the time I reached the end of the street, I raced back again, my footsteps metallic on the empty pavements, hurling myself back through the gate and into the kitchen, assailed by the stillness of the dead house, but relieved that all was still quiet. For the rest of that night I stayed downstairs and played my recorder, sotto voce , immersing myself in its tinny breathless parp - my other prop in times of crisis. I never read music, just played along to songs on the radio, picking out melodies and bass lines, mindlessly creating muzak in my head. It went a small way towards drowning out some of the guilt and grief. Until the next time I sneaked out again.
    I knew that if Social Services ever found out – found out about the wandering, I mean; my recorder playing wasn’t that bad - I risked losing Stella, and she would be taken into care. She was only ten years old. But as time went on, I reasoned with myself that if I didn’t get out on my own at night like that, I would explode, and possibly hurt Stella in some other way. I wrote a note for her which I left on the kitchen table at nights, just in case she woke up and couldn’t find me – although that never happened. Stella slept as if in a coma : ‘Stella – gone down to the 7-11, back in fifteen minutes, don’t worry xx’. During the day, I hid this note under the lining paper of the kitchen drawer.
    I was rarely out for more than twenty minutes, and I always took a rape alarm with me. Some nights I even dressed up – not short skirts and high heels; but just a bit of mascara, black trousers and a swirly hairdo – so I could pretend that I was an ordinary nineteen year old, coming home from an ordinary night down the pub. On those nights I walked briskly, purposefully, clutching my empty handbag firmly under my arm.
    I walked down to Ealing Broadway, glancing in the windows of a few bars and pubs to see people drinking and having fun. I saw girls laughing and flirting, leaving lipstick imprints on their wineglass rims; and I wanted to press my own lips up against the glass of the windows. I wanted to leave my mark somewhere.
    Sometimes I even saw girls I’d been to school with. Half of me wanted to go in and talk to them; but the shy part of me knew that I never would. It was enough, really, just to see that life was going on without me. I