The Leaving of the Swallows

Amanda Prowse's short story for This Morning is for every woman who knows the joy of motherhood, and the pain of letting go.

It’s funny, isn’t it, the things you remember, those little details that stick in your mind? I won’t ever forget the first time I held him. I was exhausted, naturally, but so excited that my tiredness didn’t really register, not until later, when I felt quite overwhelmed. They handed him to me, like a gift, my reward for all that huffing and puffing. He was wrapped tightly in a pale blue cotton blanket, his arm was tucked up and sticking out of the top. He looked like he was waving at the world, saying,

‘Hello! I’ve arrived!’

I used to tell him that story.

His dad looked at him for the first time and said, ‘He’s got a boxer’s nose!’

Cheeky sod. I must admit, he did have a boxer’s nose for an hour or two, but it soon popped and he was beautiful, absolutely perfect. My little waving miracle.

We lost his dad when he was two. It’s hard to find the words that describe how this floored me, destroyed me almost. It was a shock then and it’s a shock now. I still find it unbelievable and even after all these years I wait to hear his keys hitting the side board in the hallway and his voice shouting, ‘Hello love!’ announcing he was home.

Even though it makes me sad, it makes me smile too.

It was a terrible time, and though the details and order of events are all a bit muddled, I remember stumbling blindly through the grief and shock, numbed and robotic, but knowing I had to keep going for his sake. Everyone said I was his rock and all that he had now his dad had gone, but the truth was actually the reverse. He was my rock. I wanted to sink, disappear, give up, but how could I when he needed me? His nightmares, his rumbly tummy and his desire to be swung in the park didn’t make any allowance for my grief.The day he started school, I don’t think I slept a wink the night before. I was worrying about the smallest things, would he make a friend, find the loo, manage to get the top off the yoghurt for his lunch? He didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned, of course. He walked through the gates, shrugging his podgy little palm out of mine and he ran, without looking back. Like a puppy that’d slipped its lead, running eagerly to see what this thing called school was all about. He looked so tiny in his little grey trousers and shiny black shoes and striped tie. It was almost as if by putting him in these grown up clothes he looked even more like a baby. I waved as he disappeared inside and then cried all the way home, shoving a lump of kitchen roll under my nose and around my eyes to try and stem the flow. I couldn’t help it. I felt like he’d gone for ever, and in a way I was right. Even though he was only five, he would never again be the baby that went down for afternoon naps or the toddler that gripped my finger like I was the most important person in the whole wide world. This was the start of his adventure, his independence. After I’d left him, I stopped in at my dad’s on the way home, to see if he needed any bits or bobs from the shops. He saw my tears and mussed my hair like I was the child. ‘You silly thing, what would you prefer? That he was sobbing and clinging to your leg?’

I smiled and swallowed my reply. I wanted to say yes, that I’d like that – that I want him to need me. But I knew that’s not what I should have been thinking, so I said nothing.

Then I watched the clock on the mantelpiece for a while, willing it to go faster, until I couldn’t wait any longer and grabbed my mac and bag. I arrived long before the other mothers. I was embarrassed to be so early, and I sauntered around the block, trying to look like I’d only just arrived each time I passed the gates. Then, suddenly, it was time and there he was! He held his satchel and shoe bag dangling from the fingers of one hand and his reading book and lunch box in the other. He looked as pleased as punch.

‘Did you have a nice time?’ I asked, controlling the temptation to pick him up and crush him to me, smothering his face with kisses.

‘Yes!’ he grinned, ‘I’m going back again tomorrow!’ He looked delighted at the prospect.

‘Do you want me to carry something for you?’ I asked as he balanced the four cumbersome items.

‘No. I can manage. I’m a big boy now, Titch!’

This was in fact his own nickname, bestowed by my Dad, but my boy assumed it was an affectionate word for anyone he loved and we did nothing to correct him.

I smiled and let the second wave of tears slip down my throat. Yes, he was a big boy now…

I don’t know why I’m thinking about that tonight. It’s nearly seven o’clock. They will be here any minute and I’m as nervous as hell. I’ve hoovered, dusted, put out clean bed linen and plumped the cushions. There are fresh flowers on the sideboard in the hallway and the best towels are folded on the ends of beds, the way they do in a fancy guesthouse. I keep going into the kitchen and opening the fridge to check the lemon meringue pie and when I stand up, I plump the cushion of the chair I’ve just left. It sounds obsessive, but I just want the place to look as nice as possible.

He always worked hard, he’d be straight in from school, a quick bite of toast before tea and then his head would be straight in those books. I would sometimes peek in on him, sitting at his desk, working at his computer with his little lamp on, poring over texts and numbers that were all gobbledygook to me. It was at those times that I wished his dad was still around to see him. I’d nod in his direction and say, ‘Look at our, our boy, he’s doing just fine.’ And he really did do just fine. GCSEs led to A levels and those in turn to university. He did it all! At the thought of all he achieved, my stomach starts churning, and I sit back down on the sofa and take deep breaths trying to calm down. When he got a place at university, I can’t describe to you how that felt, it was a weird combination. I was so very very proud, but also afraid, I was frightened. No one in my family has ever gone to university, none of us ever considered it and yet he just assumed he would go and then he got on with it. I don’t know where he gets his confidence or his ability.

I’m an ordinary lady and we have an ordinary house in an ordinary town but I didn’t want him to grow up ordinary. And he hasn’t. He is now studying in a far away town and will become someone, someone with letters after his name, imagine that? My little waving miracle.

I don’t brag, but I have a swell of pride in my stomach when someone asks in passing, ‘What’s your boy up to?’

I shrug as though it’s no big deal and I say, ‘Oh, he’s at university, studying engineering.’ I try not to smile, because I know if I do I might jump up and punch the air, right there and then in the chippy or in the street and that would never do, not around here. I’d never live it down.

But here’s the thing. I sometimes think about an alternative life for me and for him, one where he is like the boy who lives two doors down. He works nights at the depot on the industrial estate and goes home to his mum for bacon and eggs before falling into the bed in the bedroom that he has slept in since he was six. I imagine how lovely it must be for his mum to see him every day, to know her boy is only ever around the corner, to experience the joy of wandering the supermarket aisles looking for all his favourite things. I would never tell my son that, of course. I would never do anything to thwart his ambition. But the house is so quiet without him or his dad and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Even though I’ve had plenty of time, the silence still haunts me.It’s my own fault I know, I should have made more of a life for myself. Truth is, after his dad died, I could only focus on him, on being his mum. It meant that even though I’d stopped being a wife, I was still needed, still had a role. I had to stop myself from smothering him with affection and attention. The impulse to do both was strong and I managed it, just. Little jobs in the bakers and cleaning the doctors surgery have kept me busy and got me out of the house. They have been my lifeline really, my contact with people. More importantly they meant I wasn’t sat at home waiting for him. She says, sitting at home waiting for him right now! My dad passed away during my son’s A Levels and in one of his last conversations with me, he said, ‘Tell the boy to grab it all and run with it. I’m so proud of him!’

God, if he could see him now. Maybe he can, who knows?

I miss them all, this trail of men in my life, who I loved and who loved me and who now live in the dark corners of my house, nothing more than shadows and memories with their touch lingering on the things I can’t bear to throw away. It’s seven o’clock. They are due any minute. My palms are sweaty. I never thought I would feel nervous about him coming home, but I do. He is an educated man and I’m a very ordinary woman. This is hard for me to say, but I wonder if he has left me behind. Or worse: I wonder if I might embarrass him in some way. Even the idea of it makes me feel sick. He’s been away for two terms and is coming home tonight for the first time, ever since I waved him off on the coach. I wonder how he will have changed? How I will have changed?

He’s bringing a girl with him. I hope she likes me, I hope she’s not too posh or too clever because if she is, I don’t know what we will talk about and the idea of spending a whole week feeling awkward or embarrassed in this little space is awful. I’ve never met a girlfriend of his before.

That was the doorbell! Oh God! I’m standing up and I look in the mirror above the fireplace, I flatten my fringe and smooth my eyebrows and I walk into the hall smiling. I open the door and there’s a girl, a pretty girl, with mousy hair and big green eyes and she’s beaming at me. I feel a rush of gratitude and friendliness towards her.

‘Ooh hello! Quick, I’m desperate for the loo, he wouldn’t stop!’

She puts her handbag into my arms as though she has known me forever and rushes past me, laughing and heads for the loo under the stairs as if she knows where the loo will be, as if she too grew up in a house like this. As if she’s been coming here for years. I smile, relieved.I look back to the path and there he is. I want to say how big he looks, how handsome! But I know I won’t. I’m thinking of the right thing to say when he puts his bag on the path and steps forward and squashes me to him. I close my eyes and feel the solidity of him, inhale the scent of him. He releases me and stands back.

‘Get the kettle on Titch, we’re gasping!’

I tut, smile, and walk towards the kitchen, and just like that, he’s home and it’s fine. He is the boy he always was, my little waving miracle, my gift. I’m not embarrassed or awkward, why should I be? I’m Titch! I’m his mum, and I realize, as I fill the kettle and take the lemon meringue pie from the fridge, that I always will be.

Read Miss Invisible, another short story by Amanda Prowse

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