Walking with Ghosts

didn’t absolutely have to be there, at the birth, your mother’d be absent. There’s a million places she’d rather be. But she’s got to be there, so she is. So that’s the first thing you see when you open your eyes. And from that moment on she and everybody else you ever meet in your life is gonna tell you what a wonderful woman she is, and how she’s your mother, your best friend, and that as long as you live you’re always gonna remember her. If you grow up and go off to war and get killed, your dying words will be “Mother”.
    ‘I mean you can say your country is shit, like England is the shithole of the world, or whatever country it is you live in. You can say that and there’ll be some people who agree with you. And the people who don’t agree with you, they’ll forgive you. Maybe. Unless they’re fuckin’ crazy nationalists. “My country right or wrong.” Patriots with loony attitudes like that. But if you say the same thing about mothers, you might as well kill your self.'
    ‘Can I say something now?’
    ‘Yeah. What do you think, I wanna monopolize the whole conversation?’
    ‘What you’re doing, you’re taking something that’s specific to you, your experience of your mother and Janet’s mother, and you’re trying to apply that to the rest of the world.
    ‘So?’
    ‘You’re not allowed to do that. Most of the people I know in this town are alcoholics. I try to go to an AA meeting thrice a week. Sometimes, when I’m really down I go every day. They’re all alcoholics. But that doesn’t make me think the world’s full of alcoholics. Just because my world, the world of my experience is peopled by alcoholics, it doesn’t prove that there isn’t anything else in the world.’
    ‘What does it prove?’ asked Geordie.
    ‘It proves that there are some people in the world who, if they take alcohol, just one drink, they won’t be able to stop. And if they don’t get some help they’ll go on drinking until they kill themselves. Governments and organizations have taken that on board, and some of them have tried to ban alcohol because of it. But that isn’t the way to deal with it.’
    ‘Hang on,’ said Geordie. ‘I’m trying to apply this to mothers, but what happens is I see my mother and Janet’s mother with corks for hats. Like bottle-shaped women.’
    Sam laughed. ‘I’ve had bad experiences with drink,’ he said. ‘I can’t handle it. You’ve had bad experiences with mothers. I’ve had to force myself to recognize that not everybody has a bad time with drink. Some people drink in moderation, and they have a good time with it. They’re not addicted. They don’t get drunk or spend the whole family budget on it. They manage their lives reasonably, and they drink. It’s a fact of life. It’s not part of my experience, but it happens.’
    ‘OK,’ said Geordie. ‘So there are mothers who act like real mothers?’
    ‘I’d think it would be a fairly safe bet to say that, wouldn’t you?’
    Geordie nodded reluctantly. ‘What, they take care of their kids, and look after them when they’re small?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘And later on, when the kids’ve growed up and got married, the mother’ll come and visit and act normal and be nice?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Geordie picked up another sugar lump and popped it into his mouth. He ground it down with his teeth and reached for the remaining cold dregs of coffee in his cup. He swilled it around and swallowed it. ‘I wish mine had been like that,’ he said.
    Sam smiled. He didn’t have to say anything.
    ‘If she walked in here now,’ Geordie said. ‘Say if she came up to the table and said, “Hello, I’m your mother. D’you wanna buy me a cup of coffee.” And she was normal about it, and wanted to be friends. If she said she wanted to forget the past, and for us to carry on as though nothing had happened. Something like that. I’d agree to it. I’d say, “Yeah, mum. I’ll get you a coffee. What about a piece of carrot cake?” Then after she’d drunk the coffee, eaten the cake, I’d take her round to see Janet. It’d be great.’
    ‘Not likely, though,’ said Sam.
    ‘No, not likely at all. About as likely as angels.’
     
    The allotment shed where India Blake’s body had been found was still there. It stood apart from the other sheds around it with an aura of neglect. The outer walls were clad with tarred canvas, and the windows had been boarded up. The whole edifice was raised up on red bricks,