Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

I step outside and close my front door. Out of habit, I examine it quickly from top to bottom. My shoulders relax. The green paint is covered in tiny cracks, but theres no writing sprayed on it today, no excrement wiped across or pushed into the keyhole. The doors been free of graffiti for nearly eighteen months, but it wont stay that way for long.

It was always the same words: Murderer; Get out; Scum. It was like they thought I did it. I used to wait till after dark before taking a scrubbing brush to it. There was hardly anyone around at three oclock in the morning, and I didnt have to be up early for anything. I still dont well, except for Wednesdays.

I dont know why we settled on Wednesdays. I suppose its because it was my day off when I worked at the No. Theres no point thinking about that: my other life.

The clouds are grey and heavy and its raining. I like it best this way; people have their heads down or under umbrellas. I open mine and catch sight of the bit of tinsel lingering in the inside corner of next doors window; its been there for over a month. Dont they know its unlucky? Though I dont believe in luck. My mother used to be superstitious. No new shoes on the table, no passing anyone on the stairs. For years after she died, I imagined what shed say to me. You cant become a single mother, Erica! What would the neighbours think of you? Or A job in a supermarket, Erica? I pictured you doing so much more. I expect its for the best that she passed before my Craig was born. Then me being a single parent wouldve been the least of her worries.

I wait at the bus stop in the rain as the shelter has long since been destroyed by vandals. A car splashes me, driving through the small lake of a puddle near the kerb. I forgot to step out of the way. I need to concentrate, stop daydreaming. Im sure drivers take great delight in drenching pedestrians these days. I try not to take it personally not everyone knows who I am. Im soaked to the skin, but itll dry on the bus. Theyre always too hot when its raining; all the windowsll be closed.

At last, the bus pulls in. I step on, into the sweaty warmth.

The bus sta

One eighty, the driver says.

Why is it always him? I pull the coins out of my purse one at a time, placing them slowly on the money tray. He doesnt even look at me; hes staring out of the window.

I grab the handles as I walk down the aisle, trying to stay upright as the bus sets off. Theres someone in my usual seat two from the back so I sit on one of the middle ones next to the steamed-up window. I smile a little as I picture Craig as a child, drawing silly faces in the condensation. My heart drops when I remember where Im going. I wipe the memory from the window with the palm of my hand. I like to see outside, anyway.

I take my magazine out of my handbag and try to focus on the words. Its one of those real-life magazines. All problems are relative. I dont recall where I read that, but its true. It helps to read about other peoples lives. Its good to feel a connection even if its a distant one, like on my forum: PrisonConnect. Families of prisoners from all over the world can talk in a safe space. Ive been on it so long, Im a moderator now. Ive never told Craig about it he wouldnt like being talked about by strangers, though he must be used to it by now.

The bus stops at the traffic lights. I look out at the bakery on the corner. It used to be the pet shop must be nearly thirty years ago now. Wed look at the kittens and the rabbits in the window on a Saturday morning on our way to Kwik Save. Craig always felt sorry for them. Can we take them all home, Mummy? he said, every week. Its not fair theyre stuck in there all day.

Its like he knew where hed end up. I blink the memory away.

The engine idles as the pedestrians cross the road in front.

Its then that I spot her.

I try not to look out for her; I havent seen her for years. Shes standing there, in the rain outside the newsagents, staring into space. Gillian Sharpe, Lucys mother. Shes the only parent who stayed in this town. So many names imprinted on my soul. There was another girl, Jenna. But my Craig wasnt convicted for that. It doesnt make sense, and I often think this, that surely the two are connected. The two happened just a week apart. If they thought he wasnt responsible for Jenna, then why imprison him for Lucy? Theres a killer out there and theyve not caught him. Or her; it could be a she. You never know.

What I do know is that my son would never harm anyone.

I lower my gaze; my face burns. I cant look at Gillian Sharpe any more. When I do, I see her daughters face, her photo in the newspapers. Ive kept them all, organised in date order and highlighted with the information I need to help me prove Craigs innocence.

How old would Lucy be now?

No, no, no, no.

I pinch the skin on my wrist so hard that my nails almost meet in the middle.

I stand in line with the other relatives: the girlfriends, the wives, the friends, whatever or whoever they are. I recognise some from their clothes, their shape, but not their faces I never look at their faces.

When I first started coming here all those years ago, a few of them muttered under their breath, called me a stuck-up bitch, but thats stopped. I was no different from the rest of them; they soon realised that. Some even brought children with them, which is understandable you have to maintain contact, even for the briefest of visits. But prisons no place for kiddies. The worlds bad enough without them seeing the worst of it. Well, almost the worst.

The prison officer opens the door dead on two; never early, never late. I suppose its because its owned by the Queen. Ive read the royal household is quite strict when it comes to time. I hand over my card and they usher me in. I give them my handbag and they place it in a locker. I hold out my arms and they pat the whole of my body. Even though I recognise them, and they know my name, my face, I must show them my passport. Its ridiculous that I have one, really, seeing as I never get the chance to leave the country. I have so many places that I want to visit, things I want to do: see the Northern Lights; travel along Route 66 in a convertible. I read a bucket list of places in a copy of the Telegraph at the doctors, but they didnt mention the Lake District, which I thought was a bit short-sighted of them.

Usually, I bring Craig a paperback. I get them from the jumble sale in the church hall in the next village. Ive been filling the bookcase on the upstairs landing at home for months. I hope Craig turns to reading when hes home and doesnt fill his head with notions of mixing with the wrong crowd. He cant have made any nice friends while hes been inside.

I wont tell him I saw Gillian Sharpe on my way here. The first time I visited, Craig was crying, his head in his hands. Im innocent, Mum, he said. You do believe me, dont you?

Yes, Son, I said. Of course, I believe you.

He doesnt speak about it much now. It hurts him when I mention it. Weve had to find other things to talk about since.

The guard calls my name. He lets me into the visitors room and Craigs already sitting at the table waiting. He stands as he sees me he always looks relieved. As if Id not come.

We hug for a few seconds. Id love to hold him for longer, but this is all were allowed.

Hello, Mother, he says, as usual, pulling away from me. His northern accents stronger in here than it ever was at home.

Hello, Son.