Free Nine Lives by Bernice Rubens Page A

confess it was a relief to leave them for a while. What does one do with all those words, all that vocabulary chock-a-block in your mouth, utterances you cannot utter, hopes you cannot express and, above all, love so frayed by hurt?
    As I dressed, I imagined their conversation downstairs. They were planning their strategy. How to avoid the unmentionable. Or perhaps they were devising a plan that would shake my faith, that would force me to move from our home, that would dispose of the ‘Dorricks’ and take the name that they themselves had adopted, whatever that was. But being Dorricks was the only name I was sure of. To say nothing of the betrayal that discarding that name wouldimply. I so convinced myself of their strategy, that I worked myself up into a rage and I had to sit on my bed for a while to calm myself. But if my boys had a strategy in mind, I too had a purpose to fulfil. I had to persuade them to visit their father, but I had little hope of succeeding.
    They complimented me on my get-up. I had put on my best and they took my arms between them and hurried me gently to their car. I saw some net curtains stirring, but, unlike my boys, I was proud and delighted. Matthew drove and Martin sat beside him. I spread myself comfortably on the back seat. We drove wordlessly for a good ten minutes until the silence became embarrassing. I felt it wasn’t my place to break it. Yet I did.
    â€˜It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen you,’ I said. As the words left my mouth, I felt the heavy weight of them, laced as they were with accusation. And though I meant every syllable of them, I regretted their sound. My boys made no response. Neither did I expect one, for how on earth could they answer but with a similarly loaded reply?
    â€˜We’re going to a French restaurant,’ Martin said, breaking yet another silence.
    â€˜That’s nice,’ I said, because I had to say something, but, in truth, I was indifferent to any cuisine, because my appetite was fast fading. I tried to cheer myself up and be grateful for their visit and their concern, even though it might all come to nothing.
    We drew up at an hotel and an attendant approached the car.
    â€˜Good morning, Mr Davies,’ I heard the man say as he opened the driver’s door. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
    It was the first time I’d heard of my boys’ new patronym and I noted that at least they had retained the same initial.My boys were obviously regulars at the place and were made welcome. They introduced me as their mother. That was safe enough for them I thought, until the man said, ‘Welcome, Mrs Davies. I hope you enjoy your lunch.’
    He stepped into the car and drove it away, leaving the three of us on the steps of the hotel. Three impostors and I felt ashamed for us all.
    The boys took my arms once more, though less hurriedly this time. No Dorricks associates were likely to be found in this quarter. It was a grand dining room, overlooking the river and they had chosen a perfect table from which one could view the river traffic chugging along in its unconcerned way. When we were seated, a waiter approached and presented me with a rose corsage. ‘Happy birthday, Mrs Davies,’ he said. I smiled at him. My spirits lifted and I thanked the boys who had clearly gone to much trouble to make it a day I would remember. My appetite returned and I was prepared to sit silently throughout the whole meal in order to show my gratitude. And I kept that promise to myself through the first course of smoked salmon and blinis. Apart from comments on the food and its presentation, none of those stifled words were spoken. But gratitude is not durable. It is banal to start with, and as far as I was concerned it had run its course. And by the time the main dish had arrived, the words began to itch and threatened to choke me. So I opened my mouth on them, if only to free an air passage, and I mentioned the