The Mother by Yvvette Edwards Page A

room.
    When he does, I’ll ask if he intends to come to court at all, or if he is just planning on sticking his head in the sand for the whole trial.
    I will accept whatever answer he gives me then get up, brush my teeth, and have my shower.
    I will get dressed and comb my hair—ha-ha.
    I’ll drink my tea.
    This is doable.
    Except Lloydie doesn’t come back into the bedroom. I realize at some point that the paracetamol is kicking in and that it has been some time since the shower stopped running. Eighteen years and I know my husband’s habits as well as I know my own. He has his shower, comes out, sits on the edge of his side of the bed with his towel underneath him, and creams himself before putting on his deodorant and getting dressed. I even know the order in which he gets dressed. His boxers arefirst, then the socks, followed by his vest, his trousers, and his top last of all. When I hear the sound of a canister hissing I know he has taken the day’s attire and all his toiletries into the bathroom with him. I wonder if he will be forced to return to collect his shoes from under the bed, but when he unlocks the door, I hear him crossing the hallway to the stairs and, from the sound, know his shoes are already on his feet.
    I get up. I push my own feet into the slippers under my side of the bed and tie my dressing gown tightly around my waist. If he will not come to the bedroom, I will speak to him downstairs. I am halfway down when the doorbell rings. I retreat to the landing as Lloydie opens the front door and I hear familiar voices, Pastor Meade from the church at the top of our road and a couple of the sisters from his church who have been fairly regular visitors since the event, have given us much support. It is another of the things that have changed in our lives, the public forum our world has become. Really, truly, it is wonderful to know others are thinking of us, to know of all the people out there who want to help in some way, to be there for us, but sometimes it feels as though I have no privacy anymore, no longer an entitlement to choose who I spend my time with, where and for how long. Some days, like today, it’s not condolences and sympathy I want, I just want to be allowed to do what I feel like, to stay in my jammies all day if I wish, to lie on Ryan’s bed, to speak to my husband about what remains of our marriage and the commitment he made to me.
    As Lloydie invites them in, I tiptoe back across the landing to our bedroom. He doesn’t have a religious bone in his body but he’s happy to fill our home with anything that means he and I will not be alone or in a situation where there is theopportunity to properly talk. He has taken them into the kitchen. I hear the sounds of chairs scraping the floor, them settling in. I pick up the phone and call Lorna’s landline. There is no answer. I ring her mobile, hoping she has maybe only just left and I’m not too late to go with her to Nottingham. Her mobile goes straight to voice mail. She’s probably already zooming down the M1 motorway. I leave a message for her to give Leah a hug and kiss for me. Then I grab my towel and go to have my shower.
    Lloydie is putting my cup of tea on the side when I return to the bedroom. He looks slightly sheepish, is probably annoyed with himself for the mistiming that has meant he has found himself alone with me when we are both awake and alert. He looks at me without speaking.
    â€œAren’t you gonna ask how it went?” I ask.
    It’s not the question I intended, too in your face, accusatory. I didn’t want to start the discussion here but it’s out now, I can’t take it back.
    His tone is dutiful. “How did it go?”
    â€œIt was hard. Listening. Seeing that boy, his mother. Very hard.”
    He sits down on the bed, bows his head, and cups his face with his hands. His hair hasn’t fallen out. It is as full as it has ever been, but the last