Woodpecker

Chapter 1 / Sam 1 / 3 x 5 x 11 Days Left

The phone rings but at first Sam doesn't feel like answering it. Ring. Ring, Ring. Ring. Like a tap, tap. Taptaptap. Tapping. Impossible to ignore and calling for attention. Putting the fresh cup of tea down on the table she walks across the living room floor, slow and deliberate. Everything is lit softly with dour end-of-December light. Sam uncradles the phone and lifts it already knowing who it is. Only one person ever calls on the landline. The voice on the other end starts talking before the phone passes shoulder height. A posh staccato thrum. The kind of posh born of pride rather than good breeding.

"Samantha darling. Is that you? Darling?"

"Hi mum," Sam says, half annoyed at the disturbance but happy to hear the familiar bark of her mother, layered with curious indefinite warmth.

"Hello Samantha. How are you? Samantha? It's New Year's Eve," she states as if Sam might be unaware.

"I know. Everything's fine. I'll be glad to put last year behind me. The next can only be better."

"That's right. Must stay positive. Good. I hope you're not spending it alone Samantha darling. That simply wouldn't do. The best is to get out there with your head held high and live a little. Take it from me. A man exiting your life isn't the end of the world darling," she says with a conviction that trails off as the sentence develops.

"The neighbours have invited me over to see in the new year. And he hasn't "exited my life" as you put it. Ben and I are still friendly. The divorce was perfectly amicable. It couldn't have worked out between us, you of all people should understand that." The words escape before she can seal them in a bubble and swallow them back down. There is the slightest pause on the other end of the line. Enough to thicken the air slightly.

"Oh now! That's too painful. Simply. It was very different with your father. Very different all together. You couldn't possibly understand." Silence, not even the sound of breath.

She was right. Sam could never possibly understand because the details, any details, of the precise circumstances of her father's disappearance had always been kept from her. The subject lay between totally off limits and available for referencing as it suited her mother. Now the conversation was finely balanced. Strategic with limited options. Continue the current line and risk a devastating attack or manoeuvre outward and risk being accused of trivializing the unspoken, fateful events of Marion Brock's life. She decides on "anyway, what are you doing tonight?"

"I see. Change the subject. Really? It would be nice if you could at least try to understand and appreciate everything I did to raise you darling. It wasn't always easy, but I tried my best. I know I wasn't always a very good mother," she says, sounding wounded and superior all at the same time.

"You know I've told you a thousand times you were mum. Don't say that. So, what are you doing tonight?" Sam tries. Again, her mother ignores.

"No Money. Young child in tow. Nothing. Unlike you I didn't have a nice comfortable divorce settlement. I had to start again. You don't know how lucky you are Samantha darling."

"I know mum. I appreciate everything you did for me," Sam says, starting to find the conversation exhausting. "Can we please change the subject? What are your plans tonight?"

"I'm invited. To the Robinsons. Yes. A few glasses of bubbly and some food. Of course, she's a terrible cook but they're good company. The last time I was there she served mashed potato with fish. Mashed potato darling. With fish," she repeats, underlining its impropriety.

"Well, that sounds fun. I'm glad you're not on your own. How's your back?"

"Terrible darling. You can't believe. Arthritis. It runs in the family Samantha, but you just have to accept it. The doctor has given me some stronger tablets, but they don't help much." Marion coughs as she says this. Dramatising her general poor state.