The Farm

  ‘Probably a little – she carries around a leather satchel. She never lets it out of her sight.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘All kinds of junk she believes to be important. She calls it evidence.’

  ‘How did she leave the hospital?’

  ‘The hospital won’t even tell me that. She could be anywhere!’

  Feeling panic for the first time, I said:

  ‘You and Mum have joint accounts. You can phone the bank and ask about recent transactions. Track her through the card.’

  I could tell from the silence that Dad had never phoned the bank before: he’d always left money matters to my mum. In their joint business she’d balanced the books, paid the bills, and submitted the yearly tax accounts, gifted with an aptitude for numbers and the focus required to spend hours piecing together receipts and expenses. I could picture her old-fashioned ledger, in the days before spreadsheets. She’d press so hard on it with a pen that the numbers were like Braille.

  ‘Dad, check with the bank and call me straight back.’

  While waiting I stepped out of the line and exited the terminal building, pacing among the congregation of smokers, struggling with the thought of Mum lost in Sweden. My phone rang again. I was surprised that my dad had managed his task so quickly, except it wasn’t Dad:

  ‘Daniel, listen to me carefully—’

  It was my mum.

  ‘I’m on a payphone and don’t have much credit. I’m sure your father has spoken to you. Everything that man has told you is a lie. I’m not mad. I don’t need a doctor. I need the police. I’m about to board a flight to London. Meet me at Heathrow, Terminal . . .’

  She paused for the first time to check her ticket information. Seizing the opportunity, all I could manage was a pitiful ‘. . . Mum!’

  ‘Daniel, don’t talk, I have very little time. The plane comes in at Terminal One. I’ll be landing in two hours. If your father calls, remember—’

  The phone cut off.

  I tried calling the payphone back in the hope that my mum would pick up, but there was no answer. As I was about to try again, my dad rang. Without any preamble he began to speak, sounding like he was reading from notes:

  ‘At seven-twenty this morning she spent four hundred pounds at Gothenburg airport. The vendor was Scandinavian Airlines. She’s in time for the first flight to Heathrow. She’s on her way to you! Daniel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Why didn’t I tell him that Mum had just called and that I already knew she was on her way? Did I believe her? She’d sounded commanding and authoritative. I’d expected a stream of consciousness, not clear facts and compact sentences. I was confused. It felt aggressive and confrontational to repeat her assertions that my dad was a liar. I stuttered a reply:

  ‘I’ll meet her here. When are you flying over?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re staying in Sweden?’

  ‘If she thinks I’m in Sweden she’ll relax. She’s got it into her head that I’m pursuing her. Staying here will buy you some time. You need to convince her to get help. I can’t help her. She won’t let me. Take her to the doctor’s. You have a better chance if she’s not worrying about me.’

  I couldn’t follow his reasoning.

  ‘I’ll call you when she arrives. Let’s work out a plan then.’

  I ended the conversation with my thoughts pinched between interpretations. If my mum was suffering from a psychotic episode, why had the doctors discharged her? Even if they couldn’t detain her on a legal technicality they should’ve notified my dad, yet they’d refused, treating him as a hostile force, aiding her escape not from hospital but from him. To other people she must seem okay. The airline staff had sold her a ticket, security had allowed her through airport screening – no one had stopped her. I started to wonder what she’d written on the walls, unable to shake the image that Mum had emailed me, showing Dad in conversation with a stranger.

  Daniel!

  In my head it began to sound like a cry for help.

  The screen updated; Mum’s plane had landed. The automatic doors opened and I hurried to the front of the barriers, checking the baggage tags. Soon the Gothenburg passengers began to trickle through. First were the executives searching for the laminated plastic sign with their name, followed by couples, then families with bulky luggage piled high. There was no sign of my mum, even though she was a brisk walker and I couldn’t imagine that she’d checked luggage into the hold. An elderly man slowly passed by me, surely one of the last passengers from Gothenburg. I gave serious consideration to phoning my dad, explaining that something had gone wrong. Then the giant doors hissed open and my mum stepped through.

  Her eyes were turned downwards, as though following a trail of breadcrumbs. There was a beat-up leather satchel over her shoulder, packed full and straining at the strap. I’d never seen it before: it wasn’t the kind of thing my mum would normally have bought. Her clothes, like the satchel, showed signs of distress. There were scuffs on her shoes. Her trousers were crumpled around the knees. A button was missing from her shirt. My mum had a tendency to overdress – smart for restaurants, smart for the theatre, smart for work even though there was no need. She and my dad had owned a garden centre in north Lon don, set on a slip of T-shaped land between grand white stucco houses, bought in the early 1970s when land in London was cheap. While my dad wore torn jeans, clumpy boots and baggy jumpers, smoking roll-up cigarettes, my mum selected starched white shirts, wool trousers in the winter, and cotton trousers in the summer. Customers would remark on her immaculate office attire, wondering how she kept so pristine because she’d carry out as much of the physical labour as my dad. She’d laugh when they asked and shrug innocently as if to say, ‘I have no idea!’ But it was calculated. There were always spare changes of clothes in the back room. She’d tell me that, as the face of the business, it was important to keep up appearances.

  I allowed my mum to pass by, curious as to whether she’d see me. She was notably thinner than when we’d said goodbye in April, unhealthily so. Her trousers were loose, reminding me of clothes on a wooden puppet, hanging without shape. She seemed to have no natural curves, a hasty line drawing rather than the real person. Her short blonde hair looked wet, brushed back, slick and smooth, not with wax or gel but water. She must have stopped off at a washroom after leaving the plane, making an effort to fix her appearance to be sure a hair wasn’t out of place. Normally youthful in appearance, her face had aged over the past few months. Like her clothes, her skin carried marks of distress. There were dark spots on her cheeks. The lines under her eyes had grown more pronounced. In contrast her watery blue eyes seemed brighter than ever. As I moved around the barrier, instinct stopped me from touching her, a concern that she might scream.

  ‘Mum.’

  She looked up, frightened, but seeing that it was me – her son – she smiled triumphantly:

  ‘Daniel.’

  She uttered my name in the same way as when I’d made her proud – a quiet, intense happiness. As we hugged she rested her face against the side of my chest. Pulling back, she took hold of my hands and I surreptitiously examined her fingers with the edge of my thumb. Her skin was rough. Her nails were jagged and not cared for. She whispered:

  ‘It’s over. I’m safe.’

  I quickly established that her mind was sharp as she immediately noticed my luggage:

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Dad called me last night to tell me you were in the hospital—’

  She cut me short:

  ‘Don’t call it a hospital. It was an asylum. He drove me to the madhouse. He said this is where I belong, in rooms next to people howling like animals. Then he phoned you and told you the same thing. Your mum’s mad. Isn’t that right?’

  I was slow to respond, finding it difficult to adjust to her confrontational anger:

  ‘I was about to fly to Sweden when you called.’

  ‘Then you believed him?’

&nbs
p; ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘He was relying on that.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Not here. Not with these people. We have to do it properly, from the beginning. It must be done right. Please, no questions? Not yet.’

  There was a formality in the way she spoke, an excessive politeness, overarticulating each syllable and clipping each point of punctuation. I agreed:

  ‘No questions.’

  She squeezed my hand appreciatively, softening her voice:

  ‘Take me home.’

  She didn’t own a house in England any more. She’d sold it and relocated to a farm in Sweden, a farm intended to be her last and happiest home. I could only assume she meant my apartment, Mark’s apartment, a man she’d never even heard about.

  I’d already spoken to Mark while waiting for Mum’s plane to land. He was alarmed at the turn of events, particularly with the fact that there would no longer be any doctors supervising. I’d be on my own. I told him that I’d phone to keep him updated. I’d also promised to phone my dad, but there was no opportunity to make that call with my mum by my side. I didn’t dare leave her alone and feared that reporting openly back to my dad could make me appear partisan, something I couldn’t risk; she might begin to mistrust me or, worse, she might run away, an idea that would never have occurred to me if my dad hadn’t mentioned it. The prospect terrified me. I slipped my hand into my pocket, silencing my phone.

  Mum remained close by my side as I bought train tickets to the centre of town. I found myself checking on her frequently, smiling in an attempt to veil the fact that she was under careful observation. At intervals she’d hold my hand, something she’d not done since I was a child. My strategy was to behave as neutrally as possible, making no assumptions, ready to hear her story fairly. As it happens I didn’t have any history of siding with my mum or my dad simply because they’d never given me a conflict where I’d needed to pick sides. On balance I was closer to my mum only because she’d been more involved in the everyday details of my life. My dad had always been content to defer to her judgment.

  Boarding the train, my mum selected seats at the rear of the carriage, nestling against the window. Her seat, I realised, had the best vantage point. No one could sneak up on her. She placed the satchel on her lap, holding it tight – as if she were the courier of a vitally important package. I asked:

  ‘Is that all you have?’

  She solemnly tapped the top of the bag:

  ‘This is the evidence that proves I’m not mad. Evidence of crimes that are being covered up.’

  These words were so removed from ordinary life that they sounded odd to my ear. However, they were spoken in earnest. I asked:

  ‘Can I look?’

  ‘Not here.’

  She raised a finger to her lips, signalling that this was not a topic we should talk about in a public place. The gesture itself was peculiar and unnecessary. Even though we’d spent over thirty minutes together, I couldn’t decide on her state of mind. I’d expected to know immediately. She was different, physically and in terms of her character. It was impossible to be sure whether the changes were a result of a real experience, or whether that experience had taken place entirely in her mind. Much depended on what she produced from that satchel – much depended on her evidence.

  As we arrived at Paddington station, ready to disembark, Mum gripped my arm, possessed by a vivid and sudden fear:

  ‘Promise that you’ll listen to everything I say with an open mind. All I ask for is an open mind. Promise me you’ll do that, that’s why I’ve come to you. Promise me!’

  I put my hand on top of hers. She was trembling, terrified that I might not be on her side.

  ‘I promise.’

  In the back of a cab, our hands knitted together like eloping lovers, I caught the smell of her breath. It was a subtle odour – metallic. I thought of grated steel, if there is such a smell. I saw that her lips were edged with a thin blue line as if touched by extreme cold. My mum followed my thoughts, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue for examination. The tip was black, the colour of octopus ink. She said:

  ‘Poison.’

  Before I could query the astounding claim, she shook her head and pointed at the cab driver, reminding me of her desire for discretion. I wondered what tests the doctors in Sweden had carried out, what poisons had been discovered, if any. Most importantly, I wondered who my mum suspected of poisoning her.

  The cab pulled up outside my apartment building only a few hundred metres from the spot where I’d abandoned my groceries last night. My mum had never visited before, held back by my protest that it was embarrassing to share a flat with other people and have my parents come round. I don’t know why they’d accepted such a feeble lie or how I’d had the stomach to voice it. For the time being, I’d play along with the story I’d created for myself, not wishing to sidetrack my mum with revelations of my own. I guided her inside the apartment, belatedly realising that anyone paying attention would notice that only one bedroom was in use. The second bedroom was set up as a study. As I unlocked the front door I hurried ahead. My mum always removed her shoes upon entering a home, which would give me enough time to close the doors to the bedroom and study. I returned:

  ‘I wanted to see if anyone else was home. But it’s fine, we’re alone.’

  My mum was pleased. However, outside the two closed doors she paused. She wanted to check for herself. I put my arm around her, guiding her upstairs, and said:

  ‘I promise, it’s just you and me.’

  Standing in the open-plan kitchen and living room, the heart of Mark’s apartment, my mum was fascinated with her first look at my home. Mark had always described his taste as minimalist, relying on the view over the city to provide character. When I’d moved in there was barely any furniture. Far from stylish, the apartment had felt empty and sad. Mark had slept there, eaten there, but not lived. Bit by bit I’d made suggestions. His possessions didn’t need to be hidden. Boxes could be unpacked. I watched my mum trace my line of influence with remarkable accuracy. She picked a book off the shelves, one she’d given me as a gift. I blurted out:

  ‘I don’t own this place.’

  I’d lied for years, readily and easily, but today the lies were painful, like running on a twisted ankle. My mum took my hand and said:

  ‘Show me the garden.’

  Mark had hired the company I work for to design and plant a roof garden. He claimed he’d intended to do it, but it was a favour to me, a form of patronage. My parents had always been quietly baffled by my choice of profession, believing I’d do something different from them. They’d both left school at sixteen, while I’d attended university, only to end up doing the same job they’d done all their lives, more or less, except rubber-stamped by a degree and starting out with twenty thousand pounds of debt. But I’d spent my whole childhood around plants and flowers; I’d inherited my parents’ gift for growing, and the work, when it trickled through, made me happy. Sitting on the roof, looking out over London, among those plants, it was easy to forget anything was wrong. I wanted to stay like this forever, basking in the sun, clinging onto the silence. However, I noticed my mum wasn’t interested in the garden; she was assessing the layout of the roof, the fire exits, identifying escape routes. She checked her watch, a great impatience sweeping over her:

  ‘We don’t have much time.’

  Before hearing her version of events I offered food. My mum politely declined, wanting to press on:

  ‘There’s so much I need to tell you.’

  I insisted. One incontestable truth was that she’d lost weight. Unable to find out when she’d last eaten – my mum was evasive on the subject – I set about blending a drink of bananas, strawberries and local honey. She stood, studying the process:

  ‘You trust me, don’t you?’

  Her instincts were extreme caution and heightened suspicion, only allowing me to use fruit that she’d examined. To prove the blended f
ruit was safe I tasted it before handing her the glass. She took the smallest possible sip. She met my glance, understanding that it had become a test of her state of mind. Her attitude changed and she began to take hasty long gulps. Finished with the drink, she declared:

  ‘I need the bathroom.’

  I was worried she was going to make herself sick, but I could hardly insist upon going with her.

  ‘It’s downstairs.’

  She left the kitchen, clasping the satchel that never left her side.

  I took out my phone to find thirty or more missed calls from my dad. I dialled him, whispering:

  ‘Dad, she’s here, she’s safe. I can’t speak—’

  He interrupted:

  ‘Wait! Listen to me!’

  It was a risk speaking to him like this, and I was anxious about being caught. I turned, intending to move towards the top of the stairs so that I might hear when my mum was returning. But she was already there, at the edge of the room, watching me. She couldn’t have been to the bathroom so quickly. She must have lied, setting a test of her own, to see how I’d make use of the time. If it was a test I’d failed. She was staring at me in a way that I’d never seen before. I was no longer her son but a threat – an enemy.

  I was caught between the two of them. My mum said:

  ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’

  The formality was gone – she was accusatory and aggressive. My dad heard her voice in the background:

  ‘Is she there?’

  I couldn’t move, paralysed by indecision, the phone against my ear – my eyes on my mum. My dad said:

  ‘Daniel, she can become violent.’

  Hearing my dad say this, I shook my head – no, I didn’t believe it. My mum had never hurt anyone in her life. Dad was mistaken. Or he was lying. My mum stepped forward, pointing at the phone:

  ‘Say another word to him and I’ll walk out.’

  With my dad’s voice still audible, I cut him off.

  As though I were surrendering a weapon, I offered the handset to my mum. My voice faltered as I pleaded my defence:

  ‘I promised to ring Dad when you arrived. Just to let him know you were safe. Just like I promised to listen to you. Please, Mum, let’s sit down together. You wanted to tell me your story. I want to listen.’