Sunflowers By Beth Morrey

When her son visits for Mothering Sunday, Maggie feels as if it is a small sliver of sunshine

Maggie bounced up and down. Not bad for an old mattress, but the springs were creaky. Fine for a skinny teen, but maybe too bumpy for a strapping twenty-year-old? There was a topper in the airing cupboard – she dragged it out and re-made the bed, wrestling a fresh duvet cover on, and surveying it all, breathless and sweaty.

The Liverpool FC logo was velvety from rewashing – was Alex still into football? The only other cover was a roaring T-Rex against a jungle backdrop. Maggie wished she’d ordered something more sophisticated, but it was too late, her son would be arriving that afternoon. Back for his Mother’s Day visit, just as he’d promised.

The walls looked bare – he’d taken his posters to put up in his new room in the terrace in Woodhouse, shared with two other students who Maggie worried would be a bad influence. There were far too many beers in the fridge, and no milk. One of his housemates was a distractingly pretty girl, with reddish wavy hair, a nose ring and a glint in her eye. What if Alex fell in love with her and had his heart broken? He’d never be able to concentrate on his mixed media, or his etching, or whatever.

Maggie didn’t really understand what a Fine Arts degree was, but she found the “Fine” part somehow reassuring. Short for “Refined”? A cut above an ordinary Arts degree, anyway, which Will always said was for hippies and layabouts.

The day they’d settled him in had been the first time she’d seen Will in months. He’d looked thinner and had grown a beard to hide his receding chin. Encouraged by Jocelyn, no doubt. To be honest, he needed some direction – Maggie had always left him to his own devices, and look where that got him. For Alex’s sake, they’d kept things amicable, and in the end, that’s how she felt – nothing had really gone wrong, after all. Apart from Will getting a dog to help him lose weight, and meeting a woman in the park with a Labrador called Algernon and eyes that definitely glinted. They both lived with Algernon now, but he didn’t like other animals, so Maggie had inherited

Basil, Will’s Schnauzer. All in all, she felt she’d got the better deal, because Will had not been the easiest of husbands, and Schnauzers were non-shedding.

It wasn’t that she felt lonely, because Will had never been great company, being monosyllabic and prone to long solitary walks. She had Basil, her friends at the tennis club, and her job at the dental surgery, which was enough to be getting on with, but ever since Alex had gone… well, a light had switched off. She hated going past his room on the landing, not seeing the chink below his door that signalled he was in, sketching his still life, listening to his Spotify, emerging to raid the fridge.

He called once a week, of course, but Maggie felt the scrupulous timing of those calls indicated duty rather than pleasure. Alex had been devastated by the divorce, inclined to blame his father, and Maggie had worked hard to smooth things over. Her son phoned on Sunday nights, and when he asked how she was getting on, she always said, “Grand, love, candle burning both ends,” so he wouldn’t worry.

The walls were too bleak, the dregs of a previous life in the faint grey lines left by the posters. Maggie went to the landing and found the stick that opened the loft hatch. Will had always done this, but she figured it couldn’t be too hard. She prodded the catch and it swung down, revealing wooden steps, which were a lot heavier to unfold than they looked.

The dark hole above looked forbidding – so long since anyone had been up there, what if rats had eaten it all? But the bulb still worked, revealing suitcases and dusty boxes. Maggie knew what she was looking for, but was distracted by a trunk next to the water tank, full of old clothes. Why she didn’t just take it all to the charity shop, she didn’t know, but when she opened it, she saw a glittery Top Shop dress, and smiled. A fund-raiser for Alex’s school, she, Will and Jacob Alleyn’s parents had joined forces in a quiz team, consuming far too much cheap wine as they tried to decipher eighties band names from cryptic clues. It had been one of the few times she’d seen Will animated. On the way home, she’d tripped over the sequinned skirt, and he’d caught her, saying, “Mags, you’re wasted!” She’d replied, “Pot, kettle,” and he’d kissed her under the security light of a Londis.

When she came back down the steps, Maggie was carrying the memory, along with an armful of pictures she’d dug out from one of the boxes. She took them to Alex’s room and got busy with the Blu Tack, wondering if he’d want to eat as soon as he arrived. There was a stew in the slow cooker, and homemade cheesecake chilling, along with a cheeky bottle of Sauvignon and a lager for Alex, since he was a student. Though maybe he’d prefer the Sauvignon, what with him being an artist.

She stepped back to admire her work. One wall was now covered in Alex’s paintings and sketches – his Egon Schiele phase had been particularly prolific, and some of the nudes made her eyes water. Back then, she’d been disturbed by these drawings, but now she could see they were good, a raw energy in the twisted bodies and bold lines. No wonder he’d received so many university offers, although she’d had to conceal her disappointment that he wasn’t going for Law. Alex was clever, could be anything he wanted to be, and this was what he wanted. She supposed it could have been worse – when he was twelve, he wanted to be a footballer, but fortunately had only average coordination, and a weak left foot.

It was still a bit cold in there, the vague chill of neglect, so she switched on the portable radiator, as it had been a nippy

The walls of Alex’s old room were too bleak, the dregs of a previous life in the faint grey lines left by posters

March so far, with frost on the tennis courts only last week. Bed made, walls adorned, room warming… what next? Better get more food in.

Maggie went downstairs, making sure everything was immaculate, and put on her coat. Basil looked at her enquiringly as she picked up her keys, so she sighed and fetched his lead. She only needed a few things and he wouldn’t get too hot in the car while he waited. With the dog in the boot, she drove to the supermarket, pulling the visor down to shade her eyes. Spring was here, finally, and soon her son would be too.

At the checkouts, she chose Joe, the deaf assistant, because she liked him and had learned the signal for thank you. You touched your chin and opened your palm – she used to practise in the car mirror beforehand in case she made a mess of it, but now it came naturally. As he checked her items through, she chatted to Marie, his signer, who was a tennis club regular with a mean backhand and a liking for gin cocktails. “How’s Alex?”

Pride simmered in Maggie’s voice. “He’s coming today for a visit. From

Leeds University. A Fine Arts degree.”

Marie beamed, signing rapidly to Joe. She seemed to be relaying their entire conversation, which Maggie worried would bore him, since he knew no one concerned. But he smiled, joined his hands in a fist and waved them in a way that looked congratulatory, so Maggie replied thank you, her gaze snagged by the sight of a flower bucket underneath the conveyor belt. Mother’s Day bunches, a last-minute reminder before the exit. Only one remained, a small clutch of sunflowers. They weren’t in season, must have been flown in from somewhere exotic, which Alex would probably disapprove of, but she added them to her pile anyway, because they were just what his room needed.

“He should be buying you those, really,” said Marie, as Joe checked them through.

Maggie thought that was unlikely, and didn’t mind, because it wasn’t the flowers she wanted, but Alex, with his backpack of washing and his empty stomach waiting to be filled. She loaded up her trolley again and pushed it one-handed, wheels reeling as she signalled her gratitude.

In the car, Basil was panting as if it was thirty degrees, and was annoyed to have to move over to make way for the shopping. She drove as fast as she dared, pleased she’d taken the plunge and had lessons after Will left. It made such a difference to be mobile, and it turned out driving wasn’t nearly as difficult as her husband had always made out.

When she pulled into the driveway, spring sunlight flared in her eyes, and she blinked, unsure whether the vision was real. But there he was, her son, sitting on an enormous rucksack in the porch. Maggie stumbled out of the car, dropping her keys in her eagerness.

She breathed in the smell of him, the unique, beloved scent of Alex. How many times had she buried her nose in that neck, inhaling his essence and rearing away to muss that dear ruffled head so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes?

“Hi, Mum.”

She rapped his curls. “Why didn’t you call? I would have picked you up.”

“Met a mate on the train and he gave me a lift.’

“Come on, let’s get you inside.”

“You’ve forgotten Basil.”

Maggie whirled around, letting out a teary laugh as she clocked the dog’s outraged expression under his crimped fringe. “That bloody dog lives like a King.”

“King William is dead, long live the King,” murmured Alex, holding out his hands for the shopping bags, as his mother unloaded.

“Don’t be daft, your dad’s not dead.” They took the bags in, and Maggie

put the kettle on. Alex prowled around the kitchen, sniffing like the dog, and she left him foraging, hurrying upstairs with her cellophane-wrapped stems and a vase.

She hoped he wouldn’t be too full for stew. There was a film about an artist on later, the one who painted the ship and the sunsets. Who was it… Turner? Anyway, she thought he might enjoy it. Maybe they could watch it together with a glass of something, while the washing dried. He was going back tomorrow, after lunch, and she wanted to make sure everything was ironed by then. With the room warm now, she switched off the radiator to stop it getting stuffy. The flowers were a pop of colour on the bedside table, and she was glad she’d bought them.

Rushing downstairs again, Maggie found her son at the kitchen table eating a pork pie and reading The Times.

“Put a plate under it.” She bustled about, making tea. “How’s things, then?” “Good.” “Course going well?” “Yes.” “House OK?” “Yeah.” “You alright for money?” She and Will had been uncomfortable about all the loans, though Alex said that was what everyone did. Living in debt like that didn’t feel right, and she didn’t know what kind of job he would get to pay it all back. Painting ships and sunsets, maybe, which had obviously been lucrative enough for Turner to have a film made about him. “Fine.”

Maggie opened her mouth to ask more questions, but the phone rang. It was Will. “He there yet?” “Yes.” “How is he, then?” “Fine.” “Does he need any money?” “No.” “Well, let me know how you get on.” Maggie put the phone down. “Did you bring any washing?”

He pointed at the bulging rucksack.

She rubbed her hands. “I’d best get on.” There were at least two loads, in plastic bags alongside various paintbrushes and watercolour tubes, but it was bright enough to hang them outside for an hour or so. They had more tea in the living room, and Alex chortled over a battered copy of Catch-22, while Maggie read Georgette Heyer. If she had a second glass of wine tonight, would she be brave enough to broach the subject of girlfriends? She knew he wasn’t gay because she’d asked once after half a bottle of Pinot Grigio, assuring him she didn’t mind either way.

“I know you don’t,” he replied, exasperated. “But I’m not.” Why wouldn’t he talk about it? He was as uncommunicative as her ex-husband. It wasn’t that she wanted him to get married or anything, just to know he was happy, though, of course, a partner couldn’t guarantee happiness. Maggie herself was testament to that. In fact, she and Will got on a lot better now they weren’t partners.

Maggie had planned on serving dinner at the table to be special, but Alex wanted to watch the football, so they ate off their knees, and she eyed his plate warily whenever a goal was scored. After, she washed up and checked his clothes drying on the rack, then went back into the living room to find him standing in his jacket. “Where are you off to?”

“The pub.” Alex offered her a slightly guilty smile. “The mate on the train? He just texted.”

Maggie made herself smile back. “Of course. You have fun, then. Take the spare keys with you.”

She switched on the radiator in his bedroom again, along with the lamps, which turned the sunflowers a rusty ochre, bathing the room in a cosy glow. When she went up later, she left a hot water bottle under the Liverpool duvet, and fell asleep wondering if there were any hash browns in the freezer for tomorrow.

He came in just after midnight, keys fumbling in the lock, and she met him on the landing in her dressing gown. “Good night?”

He squinted at her in the dim light. “Yeah, it was great. Old friends from school.”

“That’s nice. Go and get some sleep.” “Mum.”

She turned, her hand on the doorknob. “It’s weird,” he said. “Being back. Everything’s different. You. Dad. Me.”

Maggie stepped forward to cup his cheek, still boy-smooth. “I know,” she said. “I know. But everything’s the same inside. We love you.”

Briefly, he held her hand to his face, then turned towards his own room. She saw the chink of light under the door, and felt lit up herself.

The next day, he didn’t appear until after eleven, hoovered up a plate of hash browns, beans and bacon, and left with his rucksack full of clean clothes. Will called again for an update, and Maggie said they’d had a lovely weekend. But when she went upstairs to change the sheets, she felt like the light had been switched off again. A brief, glorious sunset, then darkness.

In his bedroom, the radiator had been left on, a half-drunk cup of tea on the floor. On the Liverpool duvet, was an envelope. With shaking hands, Maggie sank down on the creaky mattress to open it. It was a hand-painted card, a delicate watercolour of a vase of sunflowers, their joyous yellow nodding heads pointed upwards. When she opened the card, there was the same painting again, recreated in painstaking detail. On the opposite page, Alex had written: Everything’sthesameinside.Iloveyou, too.HappyMother’sDay.X

If you missed this stunning debut first time in hardback, then now’s the time to indulge in the life of the lonely yet stubborn Missy Carmichael. When a visit to the park opens her world to another life, the question is will she be brave enough to embrace it. Full of kindness, community and friendships. A tender book about second chances. Saving Missy by Beth Morrey, HarperCollins, PB, £8.99. Out

March 4.

She saw the chink of light under his door and felt lit up herself, a brief, glorious sunset