The Farm (3 page)

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 fruit 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.’

‘The doctors examined me. Did he tell you that? They examined me, heard my story, and they let me go. The professionals believed me. They didn’t believe him.’

She stepped towards me, offering her bag – her evidence. Granted a second chance, I met her in the middle of the room, taking hold of the cracked leather. It required an act of willpower for my mum to let go. I was surprised by how heavy the bag was. As I placed the satchel on the dining table my dad rang again, his image appearing on the screen. Mum saw his face:

‘You can answer the phone. Or open the bag.’

Ignoring the phone, I placed one hand on the top of the satchel, pressing down in order to release the buckle, the leather creaking as I lifted the flap and looked inside.

M
Y MUM REACHED INTO THE SATCHEL
, pulling out a small compact mirror, showing me my reflection as if it were the first article of her evidence. I looked tired, but my mum offered a different observation.

You’re afraid of me, I can tell. I know your face better than my own, and if that sounds like a silly-sentimental exaggeration, consider how many times I’ve wiped away your tears or watched you smile. Daniel, in all those years you’ve never looked at me like this—

See for yourself!

But I mustn’t become upset. It’s not your fault. I’ve been framed, not as a criminal but as a psychotic. Your instincts are to side with your father. There’s no point denying it, we must be honest with each other. On several occasions I’ve caught you staring at me nervously. My enemies declare that I’m a danger to myself and to others, even a danger to you, my son. That’s how unscrupulous they are, vandalising the most precious relationship in my life, prepared to do anything in order to stop me.

Let me quickly remind you that the allegation of being mentally incapable is a tried and tested method of silencing women dating back hundreds of years, a weapon to discredit us when we fought against abuses and stood up to authority. That said, I accept that my appearance is alarming. My arms are wasted away, my clothes are tatty, my nails chipped, and my breath bad. I’ve spent my life striving to be presentable, and today you looked me up and down at the airport and you thought—

‘She’s sick!’

Wrong. I’m thinking more clearly than ever before.

At times you might find my voice unusual. You might decide that I don’t sound like myself. But you can’t expect me to speak with everyday ease when there are such serious consequences if I fail to convince you. Nor can you expect me to skip ahead to the most shocking incidents and tell you in a few quick words what is going on. If I outline in brief you’ll be overwhelmed. You’ll shake your head and roll your eyes. A summary won’t do. You’ll hear words like ‘murder’ and ‘conspiracy’ and you won’t accept them. Instead, I must lay down the details one by one. You must see how the pieces fit together. Without the complete picture you’ll consider me mad. You will. You’ll escort me to some Victorian-built asylum in some forgotten corner of London and inform the doctors that I’m sick in the head. As though I were the criminal, as though I were the person who’d done awful wrongs, they’ll imprison me until I’m so desperate to be released, so numb on their drugs I’ll agree that everything I’m about to tell you is a lie. Bearing in mind the power you hold over me I should be afraid of you. And look at me, Daniel, look at me! I am afraid.

• • •

I
T WAS LESS LIKE NORMAL SPEECH
, more like words unleashed. Sentences dammed up in my mum’s mind came tumbling out, fast but never uncontrolled. She was right: she didn’t sound like herself – her voice was elevated, as strange as it was impressive. At times she sounded judicial, at other times intimate. She hadn’t spoken in this way at the airport or during the train ride home. It was unlike anything I’d heard from her before, in terms of energy and breathless quantity. It was a performance more than a conversation. Was my mum really afraid of me? Her hands certainly trembled as she placed the mirror down on the table, not back in the satchel, signalling that she’d proceed through the contents one by one. If I hadn’t been afraid before I was afraid now. On some level I must have been hoping that a simple resolution could be found in this room, between the two of us, without involving doctors or detectives – a quiet end, a soft landing and a gentle return to our lives as they had been. However, my mum’s energies were so agitated that she was either very ill or something truly terrible had taken place in Sweden to provoke them.

A vast amount depends on you believing me, more than is fair to place on your shoulders. I’ll admit that with so much at stake it’s tempting to exploit our relationship and play on your emotions. However, I’ll resist, because my case needs to stand on its own, supported by facts, not propped up by your devotion to me. For that reason you shouldn’t think of me as your mother but as Tilde, the accuser—

Don’t be upset! Be objective. That’s your only duty today.

Throughout you’ll be asking how Chris, a kind, gentle man, an excellent father to you, how can he be at the centre of such serious allegations? Consider this. There’s a weakness in his character that other people can manipulate. He prefers compromise to conflict. He surrenders easily. He’s susceptible to forceful opinions. And he has urges like everyone else. I believe he was led astray, manipulated in particular by one man – a villain.