Her hair is thin and scraped back from an emaciated face dominated by high cheekbones. She has the too-thin look of someone once addicted to heroin, and a hollowed out expression. She is tall, but gaunt and stooped, her shoulders curled in as though she is preparing herself for the next blow to fall. Only her eyes – big, brown, glorious eyes – remind me of Joe.
She stares at us as we stand outside, understandably confused. I stare back, and see her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down, as though she recognises me but isn’t quite sure how to place me.
It’s a strange feeling. This is Joe’s mum. The woman who brought him into the world, and the woman who abandoned him. She is Grace’s grandmother, and we share a link through blood and through loss. I have absolutely no clue what to say to her now we are here.
‘Ms Farrell?’ says Belinda. ‘Mona Farrell?’
‘I might be,’ she replies, crossing her arms across her concave chest and trying to look tough. ‘Who’s asking? If you’re here to sell something, you’re out of luck.’
‘Are you Joe’s mum?’ I blurt out, and see an immediate change in her demeanour. The posturing leaks out of her, her fists bunch up, and her eyes widen.
‘Is he all right?’ she asks urgently. ‘You’re not police, are you?’
‘No, we’re not,’ I say, surprised by her reaction – surprised but also thrilled. We’re here. With Joe’s mum – the first step on our journey towards finding him. ‘My name is Jess. We never met, but Joe and I … we were together. We had a baby. And … now I’m looking for him.’
A flurry of emotions dance across her hard face, and I see her trying to rally them into order. Eventually, she backs up, saying: ‘Well, you’d better come in then.’
The flat is small, but surprisingly clean. The living room is dominated by a huge flat-screen TV, and as she bustles off to make tea, I look around. It feels spartan and bare, despite the telly. There is only one framed photo on display – and it’s one that sends a crack through my heart.
I walk over to the windowsill where it stands, and pick it up. It’s Joe, and Grace, at her third birthday party. It wasn’t much of a party, really. Just us, at the park, with a picnic. I remember the day vividly: October, but strangely warm and clear, the trees turning gold, the leaves in heaps on the pathways. We took a blanket, and all her dolls, and set them out. Every single doll had a paper plate with a tiny sliver of chocolate caterpillar cake on it, and Joe was given the job of feeding them all.
We ate our cake, and sang happy birthday, and then chased each other through the leaves, kicking up piles of russet and bronze and copper.
I took this picture, and it’s probably one of the last ones we had of her. I hold it to my chest, and miss them both so much I physically ache. It’s sugar-coated but vicious, this surge of feeling, and I realise that I need to be prepared for this – following in Joe’s footsteps means opening myself up to the pain and pleasure of remembering them both. Allowing myself to revisit times I’ve shut away; walking paths I’ve closed off for reasons of mental health and safety.
It will be worth it, I tell myself, seeing Mona freeze in the doorway as she watches me. She pauses, looking cautiously on, then hands out the teas and walks towards me, gently removing the frame from my grasp.
She looks at the picture, then looks at me, and smiles. It’s a sad smile, but it changes her – takes decades away. I see a glimpse of how beautiful she would have been, before life had its way with her.
She places the photo back in its place, and one of her gnarled hands goes to the crucifix she wears around her neck, as if for comfort.
‘Do you know where he is?’ I ask, gently. I’d expected to hate this woman, to detest her for the life she carved out for her son, but now I am here I find I can’t. Any judgement has been tempered by the transparent sadness of her life, the cloud of regret that follows her from room to room.
‘No, love, I don’t. I’m sorry. He was here, years ago – 2004, or 2005, I suppose. My memory’s not so grand. Couldn’t believe it when he turned up on the doorstep, all grown up. I … I still recognised him even after all that time. Those eyes of his – they always could melt a heart. He stayed around for a little while, but … well, I wasn’t right. In the head, or the body. I was ashamed of leaving him, and ashamed of what I was, and knew he didn’t deserve me as a mother … didn’t deserve the world I could offer him.’
She’s talking about the time she first left him as well as more recent times, I suspect, and there is a world of hurt in her words, shining from the tears in her eyes.
She blinks them away, looks at me sadly.
‘He told me all about you, though, Jess. About little Gracie. Gave me that photo to keep. He loved you very much, and his poor heart was broken at what had happened. He pined for you, but said he’d had to leave. That you didn’t want him around just then and it was better for both of you if he left you to recover without him.’
‘That wasn’t true,’ I say quickly, reaching out to touch her arm. I can feel the bones through dry skin, and she jolts away slightly. I wonder how long it’s been since anybody touched her with affection or love.
‘My parents made that choice for me while I was too sick to voice an opinion. My mother died recently, and I’ve only just found out about it. I would never have sent him away. I loved him too.’
She nods, and retreats to a small stool she’s brought in from the kitchen. There is only a tiny sofa in here, in this flat made for one.
‘I believe you,’ she replies, sipping her tea and grimacing as she scalds her lips. ‘And what’s done is done. I’m sure your mum did what she thought was best. Joe didn’t deserve that, either, but the poor fella never seemed to catch a break, did he? It wasn’t a good start, having us bring him into the world, that’s for sure.’
‘Is his dad still around?’ Belinda asks, apparently immune to the almost tangible swirl of emotion and focusing on the here and now. ‘Would he have any idea what happened to him?’
‘He’s long gone,’ answers Mona, gazing off to one side. ‘Overdose. The life we led … it was toxic. When we took Joe to Manchester, it was supposed to be a fresh start. But it wasn’t – it was the same old stuff in a different place. Drugs, scrabbling for money, bad people.
‘Leaving Joe there – I know how it looks. But I did think it would be better for him, I swear. His dad was getting ideas, desperate for cash all the time … Joe was little, you see, he could get into small windows and make himself useful. Then there was a time when things got even worse, and there were people in the house who saw a little boy as useful in other ways …’
My stomach curdles at the thought of Joe, not much older than Gracie, trapped in that environment. I stare at my tea, because I don’t want Mona to see my expression.
‘I was his mother,’ she says, in a no-nonsense tone that suggests she’s trod these thought paths many times and examined them from every angle, ‘and it was my job to protect him. But I didn’t, I couldn’t – I was too messed up myself. So don’t go thinking I’m blaming anyone else, or letting myself off the hook. I’ve had to live with it for the last few years – being clean isn’t as great as it’s cracked up to be. All it means is I can see how wicked I was even more clearly.’