It was Mothering Sunday here in the UK on the last Sunday of March, and it made me wonder what that day meant to James
As always, grateful thanks to my betas, Mirth, Jay and Sominare. All mistakes are mine and mine alone, so please do not steal them.
It was a surprisingly warm, sunny March day, after a winter that had been declared the wettest on record. Storm after storm had almost turned Oxford into an island, so it was fitting that spring chose today of all days to finally arrive. For today was also Mothering Sunday.
When I was young I used to love
to sit upon your knee.
I'd gaze into your loving eyes
as your arms enfolded me.
The city teemed with people. Tourists and locals alike filled up the streets and cobbled alleyways. Restaurants and cafes were doing a roaring trade, booked solid for lunch and dinner as families treated their mothers.
Tucked away in a quiet corner of University Parks, far from the crowds, James Hathaway sat on a bench seat in the shade of an ancient oak.
Your gentle kiss would stir
the golden tendrils of my hair,
as whispered sentiments of love
we quietly would share.
James had lost his mother when he was a very young, but ever since the events at Crevecoeur Hall nearly four years ago, the loss seemed to be more poignant. He'd never before questioned his mother's death. As a child he hadn't understood, and as he'd grown older he'd accepted what his father had told him.
When darkness fell you tucked me in
and gently kissed my cheek.
You'd wish upon a shooting star
the Lord my soul to keep.
But after what happened to young Briony Grahame's mother, it had made James wonder, to question what had really happened to his own. He'd only been six when his safe, loving world had fallen apart. He couldn't recall going to a funeral; he only remembered a house that had irrevocably descended into silence.
The years have passed so quickly,
death parted you from me.
I hope you know how much it meant
when I sat upon your knee.
The question had burned away at him, festering over the years. James knew it was ridiculous. He and Lewis had uncovered all the dark secrets hidden at Crevecoeur, and even his mother's death certificate had ruled out any foul play. There was nothing remotely ambiguous about her death.
Gazing to the heavens,
as I quietly reminisce,
I'd give a million of those stars
to feel your gentle kiss.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flipping it opened, he pulled out a small black and white photograph. It had been done in a passport photo booth; it showed young James sat on his mother's knee grinning excitedly at the camera, as she gazed down at him with an affectionate smile.
I'd give all my tomorrows
to hear you read to me,
and remember those quiet moments
when I sat upon your knee.
He rubbed a thumb gently across the photograph. It was all he had left of her. He slipped it back into his wallet and stood up as he placed the wallet back into his jacket pocket. It was time to get back to work. There were no answers to be found in his mother's death because there were no questions left to be asked.
There was just a lonely child, who had grown to be a lonely man, who missed his mum.
Poem entitled Quite Moments by Louisa Lodge