The Mother

 

She stood on the frozen platform, her face pressed against the cold perspex of the security barrier, watching her daughter and granddaughter board the train. She felt a lump rise in her throat as the train pulled away and as she watched it disappear into the grey, cold granite landscape it seemed to drag the remaining warmth from her. Choking back the tears, she lifted her head and replaced the rigid mask of composure she had always worn under times of stress or sadness, and turned to face the rest of the station. Striding purposefully towards the coffee shop and her two thirty coffee meeting, she talked herself down in her head. 

They’ll be back in April. It’s just a few weeks. She needs to go home. How lovely it would be to have her son-in-law back from Afghanistan in eight days she thought quietly, so as not to jinx it, and how lovely it will be for them to be together as a family again after seven long months! Her granddaughter would soon be reunited with her dad. Ah, bless her little face. She was gorgeous wasn’t she. Her mum was doing a great job of raising her despite her own tender years and it can’t be easy living out there far away from your family, alone for long months on end with only a toddler for company. Aye, she had the indominatable family spirit right enough.

Though she still felt a deep, lingering sadness, her heart had responded to a good talking to and by the time she reached the coffee shop and her waiting friend, it had definitely lifted a little. You look well! How is everything? It’s fine. You know. Maybe a bit quiet sometimes but there’s always writing to be done and of course doing up the place takes up a lot of time. They chatted about her middle son Alex who was doing well in his final exams and now coaching a local youth football team in his spare time. She spoke at length about her eldest son Andrew, now a Royal Marine. Was she worried about him going to war? Not really. It was very unlikely he would get sent over there apparently. His commanding officer had said so only days previously. Too soon after Passing Out or something. Funny how the family had suddenly become inexorably linked with various Armed Forces over the last few years wasn’t it? Her son-in-law in the regular army, his brother in the Paras, her eldest son a Marine...They talked about the funeral of the children’s grandfather a few days before – how had they all coped? ‘Admirably’ was the reply, and it was true. She was proud of all her children. 

Hardly children now though. All off doing their own thing. She felt a pang in her breast. She wasn't sure what it was but it had been appearing more often of late and she wasn't sure why. It wasn't lonliness. She liked living alone – not long after she had got all the children to school age and the first marriage ended, she’d got herself a job and a house for them all further west. They’d been latch key kids, bought up by their bootlaces and, by her own admission, she had not been much of a motherly figure and enjoyed having time away from the children at work. Unsurprisingly they’d all left home as soon as they were old enough.  Actually she wasn’t sure if it was wholly her fault for working too much and not giving them enough attention or perhaps the wayward family gene could share some of the blame, for as many as her failings as a parent were, they were now as close as children and a parent could be. It had taken some time to repair the bond between her and the eldest boy though. He'd been 'difficult' and when he reached fifteen and she could no longer cope, she sent him to live with his grandmother. She'd never forgiven herself and he hadn't forgiven her until recently. Now though, perhaps with the maturity that her years had bought, and that his military training had given him, they had put aside their past and started afresh - enjoying spending time together and getting to know one another. She loved him fiercely, she loved them all fiercely but she also valued her own freedom.

She’d married again though -  years later, and though he was essentially a good man, there were major personality clashes, too many compromises and she found it impossible to be the Wife and Mother he had so desperately imagined her to be. Though they loved each other, the second marriage died an inevitable, long and painfully uninteresting death. There was no shouting or screaming, just a quiet departure from the marital home one saturday afternoon and like a wounded animal seeking a bolthole to retreat into and lick its wounds, she sought out space and silence to grieve. That was exactly what she found in a lovely little house under the protective arm of her beloved mountain and within easy reach of her most trusted friends. 

Months passed, the pain eased and she was now on amicable terms with him. In some ways, they had a better relationship now that they were apart than they ever had when they were together! It felt all very... textbook. The sort of healthy relationship you had when you ‘graduated’ from a How to Deal with Divorce course run by a nauseatingly smug counsellor who probably wore cords and drove a Volvo.

She smiled inwardly at the last thought as, dropping a gear to crest the last hill before home, she heard her own battered old Volvos exhaust blowing. Must fix that she thought to herself. Perhaps she should take it to the local garage and introduce herself? That was important in small villages. She liked this one and already felt like she belonged to, well, something akin to a large family. Even Dora the village Post Mistress had called a cheery hullo to her across the market square the other day. 

Arriving home just as the snow started again, she quickly rummaged for her keys and opened the door. The silence struck her immediately and as though to keep it from getting a hold on her thoughts, she set about tidying before even taking off her coat. It would be good to get the place back ship shape and Bristol fashion after a week of her granddaughter ‘painting’ the walls with banana and colouring in her expensive Swedish quilt with pink felt tip pen. Nice to sleep past 5.45am. Though she would miss her granddaughter waking her up by clambering in the bed beside her and singing Peppa Pig loudly in her ear. It would be nice to watch her choice of DVD of an evening again, though she would miss her daughter Emily rolling her eyes at the fifth viewing of the Gavin and Stacey Christmas Special. Yes, it’ll be nice to... she picked up the pink potty from the living room and could almost hear her granddaughter giggling. Yes, good to get back to my rout... she picked up the spare toothbrushes from the bathroom and placed them in the 'spares' box. Oh, and she could get on with her writing again she thought to herself as she placed the tiny pink sock on top of the pile of Forgotten Things that she would post to Germany on Monday.

Yes. Perhaps things would settle down a bit now. The separation had been hard but these things always are. The funeral was, despite the lack of contact between her and her ex father in law in recent years, surprisingly painful and she had found it very hard to keep herself composed for the kids sake when she weakly allowed her thoughts to drift and to remember the fun times she’d spent with the old guy. Still, he’d reached a grand age really and he was in a better place now wasn’t he.  His death had also made the fourteen year feud, sparked by a bitter divorce between her and his eldest son Dave, seem pretty childish. At the wake, she and Dave called a truce, talked and played with their granddaughter. The children had liked that a lot. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief. They knew what their father was like but he was still their father. They also liked that the split from her second husband Dan had been reasonably amicable and that he still wanted to see them. They’d even been round for tea with her and he seemed to be moving on now. She’d tried to take everyone’s feelings into consideration, she hated hurting anyone, and though it had been tough sometimes, things were slotting into place. Not a moment too soon she thought with a doleful smile as she made herself a cup of tea, cut a slice of gingerbread and sat down with her laptop to write. They’re all happy. All healthy. All safe.

 

It was 17:56 when she got the text from Dave.

“I’ve just spoken to Andrew. They’re sending him to Afghanistan next month.”