seemed like she’d changed tack and was going to try a different way to get to him.
Peter offered them seats at the table, but she refused.
‘No love, no, it’s Ok. You’re with your friends. We’ll be fine on our usual table, won’t we Rhys? No, you stay here. But maybe we can have a little chat later is it? Just us?’
And then she went, taking Rhys with her to sit on another table up by the wall. The Teacher didn’t bat an eyelid. Just let her go. Though he must haveremembered her somehow, because of what he did later.
Garry had brought them all some sandwiches he was getting rid of from the bar. There weren’t enough to go round so the Teacher split them between the whole table then, when they’d eaten them, he stood up and made a little speech. I couldn’t hear what he said from where I was, but he spoke to all of them, and to each of them one by one. And whatever it was, it worked, because they all nodded and looked proper content when he was done. Before he sat down he made a toast, raising his glass and getting them all on their feet.
‘Yesterday we were many,’ he said. ‘But today we are one. To Us!’
Then all the followers drank. But he didn’t, at least not yet. Not until he’d raised his glass across the room to her too, to his mam. And not until she’d raised hers back. Then, and only then, did he drink from his.
It was after the raffle she finally got to him. I’d seenher try twice before, getting up from her table clutching a photograph, only to be beaten by someone else each time; someone else wanting to tell him their story. So she’d had to sit it out beside her other son, sit it out through the bands, the MC’s jokes and the local opera singer belting out Nessun Dorma . But then the raffle came and she saw her chance.
Kev, the MC, had asked Peter to come and pull out the tickets. But Peter put the Teacher forward instead, shouting out as he made his way to the stage, ‘It’s alright Kev, I’ll vouch for him!’ releasing a groan across the whole room. It was as he was leaving the stage again that she caught him…
‘Hello,’ she said, all polite, like she was talking to a stranger. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course I do. You’re the woman from the shopping centre, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ She thought for a moment, then said ‘Do you mind if I tell you a story?’
She must have seen how he couldn’t get enough of people’s stories, how he’d been devouring themever since he’d arrived in town the day before.
‘Is it your story?’ he asked her.
‘Well, it’s more our story,’ she said, a hint of hope lifting her voice. ‘It’s a story about us.’
She didn’t give him a chance to ask any more, but just went straight on, making the most of this chink in his forgetting.
‘You must have been, oh, I don’t know. Eight? Nine maybe? Well, I’d been looking for you all over the house. It was late see, way past your bedtime, when I saw you out the window. And there you were, in the garden, on your own. Wearing your pyjamas you were. So I opened the window and shouted down to you. “What you doing there? I’ve been looking for you for ages! Stay there!” You remember that? Me shouting down to you? In my nightie? We still don’t know how you got out there. The door was locked! You must have got out somehow though, because there you were, on your own in the garden. Me in my nightie shouting down at you.’
She paused then, looking for the ripples in hisexpression she’d hoped her words might make. But there were none. Only that question again, the question he kept asking her, like torture.
‘Who are you woman?’
I saw she wanted to scream at him again, but this was her one chance, so she held it in, held herself tight, laying a hand on his arm and speaking to him soft, low.
‘I’m your mother, love. That’s what I’m saying. Your mother. You don’t remember? Me coming out to bring you back in? You
Peter offered them seats at the table, but she refused.
‘No love, no, it’s Ok. You’re with your friends. We’ll be fine on our usual table, won’t we Rhys? No, you stay here. But maybe we can have a little chat later is it? Just us?’
And then she went, taking Rhys with her to sit on another table up by the wall. The Teacher didn’t bat an eyelid. Just let her go. Though he must haveremembered her somehow, because of what he did later.
Garry had brought them all some sandwiches he was getting rid of from the bar. There weren’t enough to go round so the Teacher split them between the whole table then, when they’d eaten them, he stood up and made a little speech. I couldn’t hear what he said from where I was, but he spoke to all of them, and to each of them one by one. And whatever it was, it worked, because they all nodded and looked proper content when he was done. Before he sat down he made a toast, raising his glass and getting them all on their feet.
‘Yesterday we were many,’ he said. ‘But today we are one. To Us!’
Then all the followers drank. But he didn’t, at least not yet. Not until he’d raised his glass across the room to her too, to his mam. And not until she’d raised hers back. Then, and only then, did he drink from his.
It was after the raffle she finally got to him. I’d seenher try twice before, getting up from her table clutching a photograph, only to be beaten by someone else each time; someone else wanting to tell him their story. So she’d had to sit it out beside her other son, sit it out through the bands, the MC’s jokes and the local opera singer belting out Nessun Dorma . But then the raffle came and she saw her chance.
Kev, the MC, had asked Peter to come and pull out the tickets. But Peter put the Teacher forward instead, shouting out as he made his way to the stage, ‘It’s alright Kev, I’ll vouch for him!’ releasing a groan across the whole room. It was as he was leaving the stage again that she caught him…
‘Hello,’ she said, all polite, like she was talking to a stranger. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course I do. You’re the woman from the shopping centre, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ She thought for a moment, then said ‘Do you mind if I tell you a story?’
She must have seen how he couldn’t get enough of people’s stories, how he’d been devouring themever since he’d arrived in town the day before.
‘Is it your story?’ he asked her.
‘Well, it’s more our story,’ she said, a hint of hope lifting her voice. ‘It’s a story about us.’
She didn’t give him a chance to ask any more, but just went straight on, making the most of this chink in his forgetting.
‘You must have been, oh, I don’t know. Eight? Nine maybe? Well, I’d been looking for you all over the house. It was late see, way past your bedtime, when I saw you out the window. And there you were, in the garden, on your own. Wearing your pyjamas you were. So I opened the window and shouted down to you. “What you doing there? I’ve been looking for you for ages! Stay there!” You remember that? Me shouting down to you? In my nightie? We still don’t know how you got out there. The door was locked! You must have got out somehow though, because there you were, on your own in the garden. Me in my nightie shouting down at you.’
She paused then, looking for the ripples in hisexpression she’d hoped her words might make. But there were none. Only that question again, the question he kept asking her, like torture.
‘Who are you woman?’
I saw she wanted to scream at him again, but this was her one chance, so she held it in, held herself tight, laying a hand on his arm and speaking to him soft, low.
‘I’m your mother, love. That’s what I’m saying. Your mother. You don’t remember? Me coming out to bring you back in? You
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