Twelve Years On
Please, I beg of you, help me find my son! The womans voice was tremulous, on the verge of tears. I want nothing more from this life!
Margaret settled herself beside the host on the sofa, wringing her hands with a deliberate theatricality. She had chosen the plainest dress she owned and stayed awake the night before the broadcast, striving for a pallid, spent look. She meant for the world to see a suffering mother and to flock to her aid.
My dearest wish now is to reconnect with my son, she whispered, as if each syllable weighed heavily on her tongue. Ive tried everything! I went to the police, hoping they’d help But they wouldnt even take my statement! They said Jeremy was of age, that he left years ago, and if I hadnt cared before, why the fuss now
The host listened, his head slightly cocked, scepticism barely concealed. He suspected Margarets tale was less tragic than she painted; that shed quarrelled with her son, cast him from her mind all this time, and now come running with a cause. He agreed with the police, really but the shows ratings Ah, the British public adored such tales.
So, it was your row that led to losing touch with your son? he asked smoothly, glancing at the audience, gauging their faces some were sceptical, some visibly concerned for the unhappy mother.
Margaret nodded, fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. She drew a shaky breath, gathering herself to carry on.
Yes, it all began twelve years ago. My son fell in love properly, madly and was dead set on marrying. I could see it, I knew those feelings, but this girl, she I simply couldnt take to her! I saw what might come to pass. She smoked, she drank, she was always out late in the shadiest parts of London And, worst of all, she was drawing Jeremy in with her!
She paused, reliving those years in silence. The host didnt interrupt, granting her the pause to collect her thoughts.
I tried to talk to him, to warn him, to tell him he was heading the wrong way, but he wouldnt listen. To him, I was just Mum, refusing to recognise her boy had become a man. One night, it boiled over. He clenched his fist, slammed the table and shouted, Thats it! Im leaving!
Margaret stifled a sob. The host quickly passed her a handkerchief, which she accepted with a grateful look, dabbing her eyes carefully lest she smudge her modest make-up. With a few seconds silence, she continued:
He left. Packed everything while I was out working. Vanished no note, no explanation Changed his number, cut all contact with friends, family, everyone! All because of some girl
Her voice quivered; she closed her eyes briefly, mastering the agitation within.
Im sorry, its hard to keep myself together, she whispered, twisting the handkerchief in her hands.
Her head dropped, hair spilling forward to mask her face a gesture carefully chosen to evoke the deepest sympathy from the audience. It was time, according to the plan, to break down in sobs, to show the wound to her soul. Yet, in truth, Margaret did not feel a hundredth of the pain required; her emotions were a tense anticipation would the audience feel moved?
The host saw there were no real tears, but decided to play along.
We understand how hard this must be, he said gravely, nodding, and with a discreet signal summoned an assistant with a glass of water. No rush tell us your story in your own time.
A judicious pause followed, long enough to let the tension settle, neither rushed nor overdrawn.
What do you actually know of your son these days? he finally ventured, leaning in with practiced concern.
Margarets gaze rose, a studied mixture of despair and hope.
Recently, an old friend spotted him in London, she began, and her voice trembled whether from nerves or forced sentiment was hard to say. They spoke briefly, and from what she told me, Jeremys even changed his surname! How am I meant to find him now? I cant do this alone please, help me! Has anyone seen him?
She turned to the camera, her face frozen in the mask of utmost sorrow, her eyes trying to pierce the lens, yearning to reach the hearts beyond the screen.
Recently I was hospitalised, she pressed on, and now a trace of real worry crept in as she added, and it struck me, time is running out. Who knows how long I have? I long to see my son, to hold him, to say I forgave him long ago and long to be forgiven
A photograph filled the screen: a young man of about twenty, fair hair, grey-blue eyes, tall and pleasant enough but with no especially striking features. One amongst many youd pass him in the street and wouldn’t look twice. Margarets gaze lingered after so many years, Jeremy must have changed: matured, perhaps grown a beard, altered his style. Maybe glasses now, perhaps a few more pounds. Such things only deepened the sense that he was all but unfindable. The odds seemed as thin as mist, yet Margaret stubbornly chased that hope.
If anyone has seen a young man who may resemble this photograph, do please get in touch with the studio, the host said softly and evenly. The number appears at the bottom of your screen.
Filming finished, and, saying her goodbyes to the crew, Margaret sauntered towards the exit, acting her role to the end better chances, she thought, lay that way.
On the pavement, she shot a look at her waiting friend the one who had insisted she appear on the programme. On Margarets face flickered the faintest but most satisfied of smiles.
So? Did it work? she asked quietly, a note of self-congratulation in her tone. Do you think they felt sorry for me?
Judith, who had spent the whole show watching the audience intently, was certain it had gone to plan. Several in the crowd had dabbed their eyes, others whispered, shaking their heads. A sly smile touched Judiths lips.
Their tears were for you, true as anything, she muttered. Ive no doubt youll learn where your boy is soon enough then you can claim he owes you for everything you put into him. Look at him, living the high life, not a penny given to his dear mother!
Margaret winced at Judiths bluntness too sharp, almost cynical. Yet there was truth there, though Margaret preferred not to dwell on it.
Until recently, she hardly remembered Jeremy. Thoughts of him drifted by only infrequently, never with real pain or longing. That changed when Judith happened upon an acquaintance who’d seen Jeremy in London this same friend told of his new life.
A luxury car not just expensive, but the sort you rarely see outside of Mayfair. Spoke of suits from Savile Row, worth tens of thousands of pounds. A bespoke watch, inscribed and intricate not the sort sold in run-of-the-mill shops. And when Jeremy emerged from one of the citys most exclusive restaurants, it was clear he not only earned well, he knew how to spend, the sort who could afford bills that made your eyes water.
Margaret made no effort to pretend she cared for Jeremys wellbeing. No, she was after something different the money he, as her son, PROPERLY owed her! After all, she had brought him into this world! Now it was time to pay the piper!
Hell be found, Im certain, she whispered, more to herself than Judith, a little patience now, and Ill be provided for
Why not? She was sure Jeremy would never dare throw her out. By all accounts, he was now among the well-heeled in society people who loathed public scandal! He would have to play the role of dutiful son for the press, chalk up a point for himself in the eyes of the world. After such a stir, he could hardly refuse her!
She hadnt noticed, in her certainty, the trap set by her own sons hands
**********
Twelve years ago.
Jeremy returned home at nine, arms and mind aching. It had been an exhausting day hed completed the last and hardest of all his exams. His head was still swimming with formulas and definitions, his eyes sore from revising, every muscle taut with fatigue. All he wanted was to slump on his bed and sleep through the next day. But he knew such peace would not be allowed him tonight.
As he neared the door, voices filtered through a gruff, irritable male tone, and a softer, apologetic female reply. That man again Jeremy grimaced. The fellow always seemed to time his visits for Jeremys return, as if planning another row.
Jeremy slipped his key in the lock, gently turned it, hoping to sneak across the hall unseen, and lock himself safely in his room with no talk until morning. But the moment he stepped inside, he nearly stumbled over several large bags which were stacked beside the threshold.
He froze, staring at them. Why were they here? Instantly, he recognised his own luggage, bought new for trips, and his heart lurched something was wrong.
Whats all this? he demanded, striving for calm. Why are my things here? Whats going on?
His voice was louder than intended; fatigue and strain had breached his composure. Jeremy dropped his satchel with a thud and folded his arms, waiting for an answer. Everything fell silent; after a moment, his mother emerged into the hallway.
Upon seeing her son, Margarets face arranged itself into a moue of annoyance she snorted as if at some distasteful smell and turned away at once. Jeremy gaped, unable to make sense of it yet.
He removed his shoes and strode to the kitchen, where the murmurs continued. The door was slightly ajar; through it, Jeremy saw the scene that made his hands clench. A man Alan sat at the table, sprawling comfortably, his hand on the back of a chair, the other around a cup of tea. Alans gaze flicked over Jeremy brief, appraising then returned to Margaret.
Jeremy stepped forward, anger simmering.
Whats he doing here? he asked his mother pointedly.
Havent you told him yet? Alan asked with a smirk, twirling his mobile. What are you waiting for?
Dont talk about me as if Im not in the room! Jeremys voice trembled with outrage. Ive every right to be here unlike you! Who do you think you are, swanning in with your own lad?
He had more to say, but Margaret cut him off. Her tone was cold and measured, as though she was merely announcing the weather.
From today, you wont be living in this flat any longer. Your old room now belongs to Alans son.
Jeremy stood, stunned. He searched his mothers face for any sign of warmth, a hint that this might be a cruel joke. But Margaret stood stiffly, lips pressed tight, her gaze unwavering. Alan nodded slightly and sipped his tea as though this all had nothing to do with him.
Wait on what grounds do you decide where I live? Jeremys voice cracked, but he forced it steady.
He was shaken to his core. Hed always known his presence here made life awkward for his mother, but to be thrown out with no warning, no discussion seemed unthinkable. Cruel.
Dad wanted to leave me the flat he ventured, grasping for some foothold in this collapsing world.
Margaret folded her arms, chin tilting upwards, her expression briefly assuming a mock-gracious sorrow that Jeremy immediately saw through.
He intended to, but he died suddenly, she stated flatly. He never had time to change the will so the old one stands, drawn up before you were born. I am the sole owner of this property, and I alone decide who stays here. From tonight, you are not permitted to set foot in my flat. Youre a grown man, and still clinging to your mothers skirts arent you ashamed?
Each word was a slap. Jeremy felt a wave of protest surge inside him, but held himself in check. He was being ousted from his own home the place hed been raised, where every worn floorboard and cracked wall had its memory.
His eye twitched a sign of stress he knew too well. His thoughts raced: perhaps his fathers car accident hadnt been an accident at all? Perhaps someone wanted the property to stay in his mothers hands?
He looked at Alan, who sat unmoved, his role that of unconcerned visitor. It only increased the feeling of injustice.
Are you serious? Jeremy turned to Margaret, scouring her expression for doubt. Youre really throwing your own son onto the street?
She merely shrugged, as if the whole matter were trivial swapping round furniture or changing the wallpaper.
Ive even packed your things. Theres someone else in that room from now on. And dont you dare come back without my say-so.
Youre joking, right? Where am I meant to sleep? Jeremy asked quietly, quelling his anger.
He kept his voice even, though his eyes shone with disbelief and hurt. He still hoped it was a twisted prank that shed break into a smile and say, There, there, I was only teasing. But Margaret looked at him coolly, without regret or hesitation.
He ached to leap up, to seize Alan by the collar, drag him out. Who are you to decide my future? he wanted to shout. Instead, Jeremy balled his fists, drew a deep breath, and remained silent.
Youll be fine, his mother replied offhandedly. Youve plenty of friends someone will put you up. After that, youre on your own.
As if she were talking about leaving a book on the table, not her own childs life. Jeremy felt the injustice burn inside, but he refused to show her his pain.
And one more thing, Margaret went on, lifting her chin, I took back the money for your final year at university. Earn your own tuition I need that money myself. The wedding’s coming up.
That last blow shocked him into speechlessness. She truly meant to cut him off not just out of her home, but of every means that might have eased this harsh entry into adulthood.
But he would never beg her to change. Not now, not ever. His mind made up, hed take a year out, get a job, earn the fees, and pay his way through. He had his hands, his mind, and a fierce will that would suffice.
Jeremys nod was slow and grave, as if accepting a challenge. He sought some flicker of motherly affection in Margarets eyes, but found none only hard resolve. Right there, he knew: there was no way back. That trust whatever once bound them was gone forever.
He would never forgive his mother.
**********
You seen it? Nick leaned across the table, voice itching with excitement, phone in hand. Friend from your old town just sent a link it aired tonight.
Jeremy looked up slowly from the folder of documents hed been studying, letting it fall to the desk. He knew work would have to wait. His feelings were a strange blend not satisfaction, exactly, but a wry, bitter amusement.
I saw it, he said, a faint smirk twisting his lips. No surprise Mrs Collins husband blabbed about our meeting. Which suits me fine. Let my mother see what shes thrown away.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his clipped hair, the memory of those TV scenes fresh in his mind his mother, face carefully set in a mask of grief, lamenting her lost son. Twelve years earlier, shed cast him out coldly, deprived him of home and education. Now, evidently, she hoped to play the card of maternal love lost.
But Jeremy had seen to it she knew what she’d missed. He had built a life. He had found stability, made a career, gained contacts now citizen of another country, with a solid income and real prospects. All without her help, her approval, or her blessing.
Now Margaret knew of his success, and surely realised she might have received support if she had behaved differently. If she hadn’t traded him for another man and his child. If she hadnt stolen his university money, forced him from home, destroyed their bond.
Soon she would learn the most important fact she could expect nothing from him. Not a penny, not a kind word, not one hope of reconciliation. Jeremy was decided: the past was past. The future, he would build with his own hands without her, without her opinions, and without her attempts at manipulation.
The woman who bore him could never reach him again. Not in body, not in spirit. And that, he thought, was perhaps the greatest victory of all.
