Drifter
Lil’ Old Townhouse—13, Pebble Road
Here’s one thing most people knew about Kelly Bentham: on Saturday nights, only minutes before the clock pointed midnight, she walked out of her room bare-foot, tip-toed down the hall, down the stairs, and then scurried out the door with her boots in her hands and her handbag hanging from her shoulder.
Once outside, standing on the concrete steps of the tiny front yard, she closed the door carefully behind her and slipped her boots on.
The little Nottingham townhouse looked smaller once she was outside. It put everything into perspective. Night and day. Right and wrong. Away from home, she always started to feel like somebody. When she was walking across the street, she never looked back.
Night was awaiting. And no one would hold her back.
But here’s one thing Kelly never knew about her own mother: as she walked across the street, towards that pub, Josephine watched her from the window of her bedroom until she disappeared from her sight.
There was never a hint of guilt or concern as she let her slip away. Josephine was glad she was gone. Kelly was starting to sneak out more often now, and once she were gone completely—well away—then the responsibility of raising a daughter would weigh off her shoulders.
In her own way, she loved Kelly, but she had never planned to have her.
She lived her first forty-four years without her in a tranquil marriage where nothing much happened—a life full of growing daisies, and joining knitting classes and literature clubs, where having children was out of the list.
She always liked it that way.
It was the reason she married Tom Bentham, after all. Because he was a little diffident man who didn’t mind not being able to have children.
Then in God’s miraculous yet unwanted acts, Kelly started growing in her womb.
She loved Kelly, but she had never been supposed to exist.
When Kelly disappeared into the streets, Josephine walked down the stairs through darkness and hesitated briefly before locking the front door.
Once outside, standing on the concrete steps of the tiny front yard, she closed the door carefully behind her and slipped her boots on.
The little Nottingham townhouse looked smaller once she was outside. It put everything into perspective. Night and day. Right and wrong. Away from home, she always started to feel like somebody. When she was walking across the street, she never looked back.
Night was awaiting. And no one would hold her back.
But here’s one thing Kelly never knew about her own mother: as she walked across the street, towards that pub, Josephine watched her from the window of her bedroom until she disappeared from her sight.
There was never a hint of guilt or concern as she let her slip away. Josephine was glad she was gone. Kelly was starting to sneak out more often now, and once she were gone completely—well away—then the responsibility of raising a daughter would weigh off her shoulders.
In her own way, she loved Kelly, but she had never planned to have her.
She lived her first forty-four years without her in a tranquil marriage where nothing much happened—a life full of growing daisies, and joining knitting classes and literature clubs, where having children was out of the list.
She always liked it that way.
It was the reason she married Tom Bentham, after all. Because he was a little diffident man who didn’t mind not being able to have children.
Then in God’s miraculous yet unwanted acts, Kelly started growing in her womb.
She loved Kelly, but she had never been supposed to exist.
When Kelly disappeared into the streets, Josephine walked down the stairs through darkness and hesitated briefly before locking the front door.