Nurse came late today. I have never seen her look flustered, but today she did. Her face was pink and her hair, usually combed with flat perfection into her ponytail and shining with cleanliness, had been yanked into a bumpy knot. But it wasn’t that. Nor was it the tired slope of her eyes or the crackle of thread veins in her cheeks. It was the set of her mouth. She had clamped it into a smile, wide and closed like a frog’s, and while every day of my stay here so far she had looked me steadfastly in the eye – and God knows this must have been a challenge – today she looked at the floor.

She handed me my dish of pills.

‘And how are you this morning, my darling?’ she asked me as she does every day, knowing that I will not answer.

And it struck me that this flat smile of hers was a smile of pain. And that here she was, uniform on and hair pulled back, asking me how I felt. How I felt. The plant that blooms no matter how many times it is cut down, and still the weed sits there trying to poison it. I wondered what in her life had cut her down. I wondered if she’d tell me as we walked around the yard, and if she was silent, whether I would find the words to ask her what was wrong.

‘I’m all right,’ I said. No more than a croak.

Her eyes widened; her eyebrows shot into her brow.

‘Are you now?’ she said. ‘Well that’s grand.’

I gestured for the water. She held it out to me. I took my pills and sipped.

‘Nurse.’ Throat still scratchy, I coughed. Gently I reached for her wrist and held it. I met her eye. ‘What’s your name?’

Slowly she took the paper cup from me. ‘It’s Betsy.’

‘Betsy,’ I repeated, the name giving me the woman, giving me my voice. ‘You have been very kind to me. Thank you.’

---

But now, there’s no more going round the houses. That Wednesday, it was Christopher, not Phyllis, who opened the door. It was Christopher who found himself face to face with a man on the doorstep, a man he thought he recognised from somewhere. A man with brown shoulder-length hair pushed back from his face, a lopsided smile and inquisitive dark green eyes.

‘Hi there.’ His accent was American, which came as a shock. ‘My name’s Benjamin Bradbury. Ben. Pleased to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand and smiled as if a handshake was non-negotiable – as if in his world rejection was not and never had been a possibility. His green eyes creased at the edges, his pale cream teeth were even and strong. His trousers were pale cream too, as if to match, and his shoes were brown, highly polished leather. He looked American as well as sounding it, Christopher thought, leaning forward to shake the man’s hand.

‘Christopher,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Phyllis Curtiss… actually, what am I talking about, her name is Griffiths now, I believe, excuse me. Curtiss is her maiden name.’ His voice rose at the end of each sentence, as if he were asking a series of questions. But they were not questions.

‘Phyllis?’

‘Phyllis Griffiths. She lives here, I believe.’

‘Curtiss,’ said Christopher. The word blocked his throat. He coughed – coughed again. ‘I mean Griffiths. No. I mean she used to but she – she moved. Away.’

Ben opened up the piece of paper in his hands. ‘That’s strange. Actually, I’ve just come from her parents’ home over on Greenway Road, and they said she lived here. Is there another Langdale Road around these parts? Maybe I’m mistaken.’

The pulse in Christopher’s forehead throbbed so hard he felt sure this man, Ben, would see it: a raised purpled vein, a blood beat fit to burst. Instinctively he put up his hand to hide it. ‘No. Yes. She does live here but she doesn’t like visitors. That’s why I answer the door, you see. She doesn’t like people coming to the house. She gets… she gets nervous. She’s a very nervous person. Can I ask what it’s in connection with?’

Ben looked down at his shiny shoes, but from the set of his brow Christopher could see he was still smiling. ‘Actually, it’s kinda personal. It’s real important I get to see her.’ He looked up and fixed Christopher with his unflinching green gaze, his wide cream teeth.

‘I would recommend you drop her a line,’ were the words that left Christopher’s mouth. ‘If you like, you could give me a letter and I’ll make sure she gets it.’

‘Ah, gee.’ Ben looked behind him, into the road, and back again at Christopher. ‘Thing is, I have to fly back to the States in a few days and it’s real urgent.’

‘I’m sure if you write something now she will get it tonight,’ Christopher insisted. ‘In fact I’ll make sure she gets it. I give you my word.’

Ben looked beyond Christopher, into the hall. ‘Is there any way I could wait? It’s real important I see her.’

Christopher’s chest began to burn. He widened his stance so as to fill the doorway. This chap was small in build, smaller than Christopher, but he still took up plenty of space. There was something about him, polite as he was. His American-ness perhaps. The Americans were a pushy lot.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Christopher said. ‘Nothing personal, you understand. It’s just that I don’t know you and one can’t be too careful. Really, if you can write something down and post it through the door, that would be better.’

‘No need,’ Ben said, digging in the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out an envelope. ‘I figured this might happen. I’d sure appreciate it if you could pass this on as soon as possible.’ He handed it to Christopher. The envelope was pale blue; it looked like it was from a hotel writing set. ‘Do you mind me asking, are you related to Mrs Griffiths?’

‘Yes,’ Christopher said, tipping his head back a little. ‘I’m her son.’

Again Ben spread his big cream American teeth. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s awesome.’ He stared at Christopher for longer than was comfortable before adding: ‘Listen, Christopher, the note’s confidential, of course. I’ve left the number for my hotel. I’m staying at a place called the Crest. Room 152. It’s beyond the Beechwood—’

‘I know it.’

‘She can call me there.’

‘Marvellous.’ Christopher put one hand on the door now. ‘I’ll make sure she gets it.’ He made to close the door, but Benjamin threw out his hand – another handshake. What was he, a politician? Pretending not to see, Christopher closed the door and pressed his forehead against it, exhaling heavily before running through to the living room and watching the man walk away. His gait was relaxed, almost a roll, as if he walked for the sheer pleasure of it. He got into a red Ford Fiesta parked at the end of the drive, fired the engine more than was necessary and drove away.

Once he had gone, Christopher went into the kitchen and held the envelope over the steaming kettle. His hands shook. He eased open the flap and pulled out the letter. It was handwritten, as Christopher’s own letters to Phyllis had been three, maybe four years ago now.

Christopher dug the photo out of the envelope. It showed a nun, standing in front of a bookshelf, holding a baby in her arms.

Christopher felt himself fold – collapse forward. There had been a mistake, that much was clear. It was he, Christopher, who had gone through the correct channels; he, therefore, who was right, who was Phyllis’s son. He could not be wrong – how could he be? He had found Phyllis four years ago! He had come to her and they had both known from the very beginning that she was his mother – that it was meant to be. Didn’t he close his eye in that way she did? And her nose was broad, like his, and her eyes brown, also like his, not green like the American’s. Didn’t they share the same sense of humour? Didn’t they… Whatever, they were close, had been since that first day. He had seen nothing of Phyllis in Ben, nothing at all.

And besides, it was too late. He and Phyllis had fallen into their routines – they were practically colleagues. She had helped him so much with his teacher training, helped him plan lessons, shown him how to criticise without discouraging. She was always there when he’d had a tough day, listening to him, advising him, galvanising him to go forward. Now that he too was at work, they would come home at a similar time and sit together at the kitchen table to mark their books and plan their lessons in companionable silence. A companionable silence that had taken years!

So no. No. This man – Ben – could not simply walk into this house and claim he belonged here instead. He could not. Ben wouldn’t help Phyllis prepare the dinner the way Christopher did. Ben wouldn’t be able to sit at this table and eat and trade the day’s tales, jokes, insults. This was not Ben’s family. This was not Ben’s mother. This was not Ben’s life.

No. No. Christopher would go to the hotel; he would call this Ben Bradbury, this cocky interloper, down to reception and tell him to sling his hook. Go and steal someone else’s life, he would tell him. Go through the correct channels and don’t come back here unless it’s to apologise for the distress you’ve caused.

The key banged into the lock. Phyllis. He knew her every sound, her sigh as she hung up her coat, the groan as she pulled off her shoes. He knew these things, and more, because he loved her more than his own life.

‘Hello?’ she called.

‘In here.’ Christopher put the letter and the envelope in his pocket.

‘Hello, love.’ She was at the kitchen door, clothes shop bags in both hands: Miss Selfridge, C&A, Dolcis. She bustled through, oblivious. ‘I got some shoes,’ she said, since that is the kind of thing people who have no idea how happy or how safe they are say to one another. ‘I got three tops and a skirt too – don’t tell David!’

‘Good,’ he croaked through the sharp sting at the back of his throat. ‘That’s good.’

‘Tea?’

‘Actually no, thanks. I’ve… I’ve got to pop upstairs a second.’

He left the kitchen before she could see his face and ran up the stairs. A second later she called up: ‘Christopher?’

On the dark landing, he halted. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you OK, love?’

‘I’m fine.’ He did not move. Waited in the darkness to hear the pad of her feet retreat into the kitchen. Once he was sure she had gone, he went into his room and for the first time sat at the desk with the intention of writing something. From the pot in the corner he took out the fountain pen Margaret had given him. Margaret, whom he had abandoned. Jack too, Jack Junior, Louise, even David and the twins… all of them he had to a greater or lesser degree rejected, all for her, all for Phyllis. There was no one more important, not even himself. That was love. That was how a son loved his mother. If she weren’t his mother, he would have known. He would feel it. She had to be his mother. Without her, he had nothing. He was nothing. He was no one.

He wrote: Dear Benjamin, and stopped. If he contested this man’s claims, that would create an argument. Benjamin Bradbury would most likely return to the house and confront Phyllis. There would be a scene. He would press charges; the Americans were a litigious bunch. Liverpool Council would get involved, the whole lot. No. Far better to reject him. There was little one could argue against rejection. He bent to his task:

He sealed the letter in an envelope and wrote Ben’s name on the front. He crept downstairs and lifted his coat from the hook. Silently he slid open the hall table drawer and took out his car keys.

‘Chris?’ Phyllis called from the kitchen. There was a smell of chocolate cake – she must be baking, he thought, for the Easter service. ‘Love?’

‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he called back to her. ‘I’ve just got to nip out for something.’

‘All right. Tea in an hour or so, once I’ve finished these fairy cakes, all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, OK.’

‘Oh, Chris?’

‘Yes?’

She had come to the kitchen door and was wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘Did anyone come to the house today?’

‘Anyone? Like who?’

‘A chap. Only Mum said an American had called round, saying he was the son of a friend of mine from school. Said he was going to call and say hello apparently.’

Christopher felt for the latch, aware of his heart beating. ‘No one came,’ he said, shaking his head, turning away from her, opening the door.

‘All right,’ he heard her say. ‘Maybe he’ll come tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ One foot on the step, he paused. ‘Maybe tomorrow. I’ll… I’ll see you in a bit, then.’

‘Rightio,’ she said. ‘See you in a bit.’

He closed the front door without a sound, as if stealth could protect him from his own roiling insides. He drove up the steep hill of Heath Road, turned left and continued past the playing fields, past the golf course and the larger detached houses, past the bus station, beneath the expressway and through Beechwood Estate. He turned right, drove a little further through yet more houses and parked, finally, at the Crest Hotel. An anonymous place, of brown brick and smoked glass, somewhere people hired for functions: weddings, christenings, funerals.

‘Could you please make sure Benjamin Bradbury gets this letter as soon as possible?’ he said to the girl at reception. ‘It’s extremely important he receives it tonight.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said the girl. ‘I’ll take it to his room now.’