Page 61 of The Stolen Child

‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.’

Her voice threw Sally. It was deeper than she remembered it, raspy, as if she had smoked too much. Prepared speeches disappeared as a rush of emotion flooded Sally again.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ her mother asked again. But her voice wasn’t cruel as she surveyed Sally, and she smiled lopsidedly at her.

Sally remembered that smile, and it gave her the courage to move closer again.

‘Hello, Mum.’

Her mother’s face paled as Sally’s words landed. Her eyes drifted up and down Sally, and then, with a quick glance up and down the road, she gestured inside.

‘You better come in.’

The house was clean; that was Sally’s first thought as she walked down the small hallway into a square sitting room. The heavy scent of cologne lingered behind her mother as she moved. It wasn’t Pretty in Peach, though. Something muskier that she didn’t recognise. A brown velvet couch and armchair were pushed against the wall. The floor was carpeted, deep red, with a beige pattern running through it. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room, and several magazines were on top. It looked normal, like any mother’s home.

‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ her mum said as she took a seat in the armchair, her eyes running over Sally from head to toe. Sally perched herself on the edge of the sofa, her body trembling as her heart raced.

‘You look well, Mum,’ Sally said, clasping her hands on her lap so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

‘And you’ve all grown up,’ her mum replied. She smoothed down her hair, licking her lips as she took in Sally. ‘How’d you find me?’

‘The phone book,’ Sally said. ‘I thought you might have left England. I was happy to see you are still here.’

Her mother’s face clouded, and the lines around her lips deepened as she frowned. ‘I should have gone to Australia when I had the chance.’

Sally shifted in her seat as her mother’s eyes glared at her. It was as if Sally were to blame for this missed opportunity. ‘Why didn’t you go?’

‘My friend and I applied for the ten-pound passage as part of the Australian Migration Scheme – Ten-pound Poms, they called it. I was all set. But then I got pregnant. I had to stay here while my pal was out in Perth, living her best life. The sun shines every day there, so I’m told.’

Ah, it was her fault. Sally didn’t know how to respond, so she stayed dumb. An uneasy silence filled the small sitting room.

Ask me how I am, Mum, please.

‘I haven’t got any money if that’s what you’re looking for,’ her mother eventually said.

‘I didn’t come for money, Mum,’ Sally replied. Her hands felt clammy, so she wiped them on her trousers. ‘I have a job. Well, two, actually. I’m an apprentice hairdresser, and I work at night cleaning offices.’

Her mother smiled again, and the tension left the room. ‘My daughter is a hairdresser!’ She clapped her hands in delight, clearly pleased with this career choice. ‘You have pretty hair. I like that style,’ she stated, and Sally basked in the compliment.

‘The Farrah Fawcett flick is popular in my salon. Nicola, she’s my boss, she styled my hair like this. I’m glad you like it.’

Sally passed the brown paper bag to her mother. ‘I got you some chocolates.’

Her mother opened the bag and smiled her lopsided grin again. ‘All because the lady loves Milk Tray. My favourite. Tell you what, let’s have some tea and chocolates now.’

Her mother disappeared, and Sally took the chance to look at the photographs that lined the mantlepiece over the fire as she heard her fill the kettle.

‘There’s none of you there,’ her mother’s voice said from behind. ‘Too hard to look at you after I handed you over.’

This was the first sign of emotion from her mother, and Sally clung to it.

‘I understand.’ Sally paused, trying to work up the courage to admit her truth. ‘I missed you, Mum.’

There, she’d said it.

Her mother walked to her and held her hands between her own. Bright red nail polish gleamed on her mother’s long acrylic nails.

‘I can’t wear polish because of the cleaning job. It never lasts,’ Sally explained, feeling a little embarrassed by her boring, unadorned nails.