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.’
Alice had roasted a chicken with all the trimmings and opened some wine. I knew she was trying to make this a celebration of sorts for my homecoming, but I couldn’t force much down. My mind whirled with it all, but mostly with the idea that Tom still believed I was innocent. At the trial I’d pleaded not guilty, but in prison I finally had to accept what Mike and the others told me: that my amnesia was caused by my inability to face the reality of what I’d done. I’d tried to explain it to Tom in my letters, and I cursed myself for not making it clearer.
We didn’t speak much, but he ate well. When he’d cleared his plate he pushed back his chair, looking at Alice. ‘Got to do some homework,’ he said.
As he thundered upstairs, Alice touched my hand. ‘It’s bound to be hard for him. Give him time.’
‘He thinks there could be some way to prove I was innocent.’
She shook her head, and I followed her to the kitchen where she fiddled with a fancy-looking coffee machine. ‘I was afraid of something like this.’
‘What?’
‘He spends a lot of time at his friend Mark’s and, according to Mark’s mum, the two of them have started watching that bloody programme about miscarriages of justice.’
I knew the one she meant; it was a favourite with some of the women inside. ‘But you should have told him there was nothing like that with my case.’
‘It wasn’t so simple, Clare. I tried, but what could I say? If your letters didn’t convince him how could I? I couldn’t tell him about your past, the drugs, and everything, could I?’
‘But you should have made him understand.’
‘Look Clare, it’s you who doesn’t understand. You haven’t
