This Be The Verse
By Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Erik was a good horseman. In fact, he loved horses and had always been profoundly grateful for their gentle acceptance of him, their solidity and strength. He had spent years riding on the road with Guizot during his adolescence and the knowledge that he could outpace any human assailant while riding gave him a security quite unlike anything else. Not that he had ever ridden a horse at speed through a crowd, much as he had wanted to, especially in the early days, after the fair.

There had been many times, when he was younger and he was overwhelmed with all the things, that he would take himself to the stables at night and press his unmasked face into their warm flank or stroke their soft, snuffling noses and whisper to them for hours, and somehow, because of them, things would start to seem more bearable. They didn't care what he was. Indeed, he had been wondering recently if he shouldn't simply buy himself a horse and take off into the night.

In contrast, Nadir had last ridden a horse as a young boy, his uncle's, and without a saddle. Erik spent much of the first day on the road attempting to teach him to ride confidently – and laughing at him, much to Nadir's irritation. The truth was, the horse needed an experienced rider and Nadir most definitely was not. Erik had ended up leading Nadir's horse much of the way.

As they reached the edge of Paris, away from the slums and the churning mass of people, into the open countryside, and onto the long muddy cart paths that went past endless damp and dispirited farms, Nadir asked where they might be going.

Erik laughed at him again, "you didn't think to ask me before? How do you know I'm not leading you to hell? You're far too trusting."

"I thought the other day that you had already taken me there."

"Mmm."

"So where are we going?"

"Rouen. I grew up in a village just to the west of the place. I thought I – we – could go and visit my mother. It will take us about three days to get there." Perhaps they were going to go back to hell.

"Oh. Why?"

"Why not? I haven't seen her since I was nine."

"When you ran away from her."

"Yes."

They rode on in silence for a while. It was beginning to rain.

"And where will we go from there?"

"We will go to the coast and visit Guizot. I haven't seen him for two years."

"The coast?"

"The Atlantic coast – to the west. It will take us a week from Rouen."

"Does he know to expect us? The middle of winter is a bad time to be travelling – "

"There will be no one around. All the peasants will be hibernating. It seems like an eminently good time to be travelling. I will write to him."

"But the weather – "

"I'll buy you another coat. Or you can go back to Paris."

"Ah yes, back to Paris where my life is in ruins – thanks to you."

"Come now, Nadir." Erik laughed. "Where is your sense of adventure? What could be better than travelling with me through the beautiful lands of the north in the middle of the winter? It will be wonderful!"

Erik had told him little of his early childhood with his mother; he couldn't remember large periods of it and those times that he did remember were strange and disturbing to him, even now. He often felt surprised and not a little ashamed that the memories of his childhood still had such an impact on him, all these years later, and it left him frustrated that he could never just forget it all completely, and that previously forgotten episodes would surface unexpectedly in nightmares and haunt him during the day.

Guizot had shown Erik letters that she had sent for him after she had been told of his rescue – he had refused to read a single one, or even look at them. Guizot had then tried to encourage him to write to his mother, at least at first, but Erik had refused outright or, when forced to remain in his seat until he'd written something, made his writing so small that it was completely illegible. Or he'd written hate in red many times on the good paper that Guizot had given him, which had earned him a clip around the ear. He had run away after that, stayed away for two nights. He refused to listen to any news from his mother, singing too loudly when any of her letters were read to him. And when Guizot had suggested going to visit her, several years after his rescue, Erik had refused to eat for days, and so it had never been mentioned again. What an awkward little shit he was.

So why did he have this compulsion to return to her now? Erik presumed that Guizot had continued to let her know of his continued persistence on this earth. Quite what he would have told her from the scattered and infrequent letters he sent to Guizot he couldn't imagine. He could hardly present himself to her as an example of a fine upstanding young man; look how well I've turned out, Mother! Ugly as sin, thinner than ever, escaping a horrible scandal, I have a chaotic morphine habit, and meet my huge and handsome lover! The thought of shocking her with all of that gave him a little thrill – she had always been so keen on him being so boringly proper.

"What are you laughing about?"

"I'm remembering my mother. She was dreadfully uptight. She was dreadful in so many ways." Erik laughed again. "I'm looking forward to introducing you to her."

Nadir sighed. "You are thinking of using me as a way to shock your mother? Do not do that, Erik. It would be - unpleasant."

"There are many ways I can shock my mother, I daresay you would be the least of them." He reached down and patted the neck of his horse.

"So besides going to see your mother to shock her with me, why else are we going there? When you parted on such – difficult – terms. I am wondering what that will be like. For you both. Does she know we are coming?"

"No. We will surprise her."

"I see. And you are hoping for what? A reunion?"

Erik said nothing for a while. It had occurred to him that he had a vague desire to prove to her that, despite all his failings, that he could be – seen for what he was – and that people – Nadir! – still wanted to be with him. He wanted to show her that, apparently, he was not the monster she had told him he was. Because of Nadir - because of Giradin. Maybe she would believe him.

Would he have gone there without Nadir as proof of this? Proof that he could be – whatever was it that Nadir's presence proved? And Jesus Christ, why did it even matter what she thought of him?

He couldn't say any of this to Nadir, so he tried something that was close to the truth, "I want to show her that I am still in existence. Not because of her. Despite her. Because I carried on."

Nadir turned to him. There is sadness in his look, Erik thought, and it irritated him.

"Stop looking at me like that. You're always looking at me with – pity – that's unpleasant. What was your mother like?"

"I did not run away from her when I was nine."

"Ah – now you're boasting."

"There were many of us Erik, living together, under my father's house. My mother was always there in the background. But I had brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles, and the children played together. As we grew older, we were useful and helped with the animals and fetching wood and water. It was a busy household. It was different to yours."

Erik did not reply. He listened to the easy rhythms of the horses as they walked, the faraway shout of a man in a field, the distant chiming of a church bell.

After a while, Nadir spoke again. "When Reza died I had to move from the house I had been living in because the memories of him, and his death, they were too painful to remain. Places can have a very strong effect on a man, Erik."

"Yes – "

"Which is why I am wondering - " he laughed, "- still - why we are going to your mother's house. Have you considered what it will be like? To be in the home of your childhood? With her? So soon after all of this?"

"I haven't considered it at all. Maybe we will just ride there and look at the house and ride on. I don't know. I don't want to talk about her anymore."

"Then we are making a great deal of effort, Erik, to go and look at an old house. Three days of travelling!"

"What else do you suggest we do?"

"What else could we do? Other than going to pay a visit to your mother? Let me think of some things – we could find a nice place to stay and let this weather pass, we could travel directly to your friend Guizot, we could simply have stayed in Paris. The truth of it, Erik, is that I am worried about what will happen – to you - when and if – you meet her again. I am worried."

"You are a strange man, Nadir. I am going to see my mother. That is all. There is no need to worry."

They reached the little town of Pontoise just before nightfall that first day where they found an inn and two rooms and a place to stable the horses. They had to race against the short, dark days and the constant threat of snow. But their horses were young and fit and eager and they crossed the wide rolling landscapes north of Paris with ease.

And the following day, Nadir did not ask Erik again if they should reconsider his plans to go back to Boscherville. They pressed onto Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, and found a place to stay near the little church.

It was a grim journey, bitterly cold and the snow hard, with the wind whipping over the fields with little in the way of shelter from trees, and when it wasn't blowing a gale their breath and the breath of the horses was visible in the freezing air. But the further they got from Paris the freer Erik felt; he was exacting an escape from his life. The difficulty of the journey and the trials of the horrid weather seemed to him a kind of penance for the sins of the past few weeks.

And besides, Erik decided it was wildly romantic to have taken off together in such a way, to battle through the snow and ice to a new life. Even if that life was only somewhere in the rain-swept plains of northern France. He didn't share this romance with Nadir. But he continued to feel a deep and abiding pleasure at being with Nadir that would remain, to an extent, even after the morphine wore off. And this gave him the tiniest slither of hope that he could one day live without it, and it would be Nadir, not morphine, in his veins and his heart and who would soothe his horrid brain. One day, one day.

Erik did not tell Nadir about his romantic ideas. He strongly suspected that Nadir was still furious with him for pulling him out of his comfortable life to a life of vagrancy in the middle of the winter, and in such a dreadful way. Their talk as they travelled through the weather was intermittent and was often limited to the practicalities of where they were going, what the horses needed, and finding food for all of them, and attempting – usually failing - to keep warm and dry.

The third day they left early, rode hard through the falling snow and reached Rouen by the evening, just after the dark fell. They found a place to stay in a half-timbered hotel, no less, in the narrow streets of the city. The whole place was silenced by snowfall. Erik took his meal in his room, Nadir joining him later, having, to Erik's great amusement, thrown himself around in his bed to give the impression of having slept there all night – a procedure that was to become their nightly routine over the following days on the road.

They set out for St-Martin-de-Boschervile in the middle of morning of the following day. Any nerves Erik belatedly realised he felt at the prospect of meeting his mother were somewhat quelled by a large dose of morphine he had taken before they left, and it was fair to say that with this and the distance between him and Paris, he felt positively buoyant. Nadir did not seem to share in his mood.

After they'd ridden for an hour, Nadir said, "Erik – what will you do if she cries when she sees you? Have you thought of that? It is what women tend to do. And what you tend to do – the crying. What if she chooses not to see you? Do you know if she is still alive? Does she still live in the house that you remember?"

"Why all this worrying? If she is not there we will ride back! I will go and look at the house, I daresay, nothing more. There is nothing to be concerned about. It is only a house. And she is only a woman – one I have not seen for many years. It might be that I hardly remember her at all. She will be old!"

" – Erik – "

"I will not be alarmed by her, Nadir – what can she do now? I can easily leave again, whenever I want to, there will be no locks or bolts on the windows that I cannot pick, the doctor will not be there – or if he is I am sure that I am taller than him now, I will not listen to the things he likes to say; I will find the grave of Sacha and I will pay my respects to her, maybe even sing another requiem for her, like I tried to that night, and the woman – that woman, what was her name, maybe she will be there, but if she is dead too, then it will be alright, but I will be able to say I went and I tried and she could have seen me, if she wished – "

"Erik! Stop!" Nadir had ridden up so that he was beside Erik, frowning, his face full of worry.

"You will be there – "

"What are you talking about?"

Erik gave his head a little shake, he wasn't sure at all what he had been talking about. "It will be alright, you'll see."

"Who is Sacha?"

"My dog."

"Your dog?"

"My dog, yes! She died on the night I left – they killed her – " Erik was flooded with the memory of it, his eyes unseeing; the screaming of the crowd, his screaming, the blood of the dog and his. He was brought back to his senses by the tripping of his horse, a side-stepping, almost as if the animal was aware of his distress. He tightened the reins and made a soothing sound as much for himself as for the damn horse.

"Ah Erik, we can turn back – we don't have to go – "

He turned and looked Nadir full in the face. "I have to go. I have to make her see me."

And Nadir said no more.

Within another hour they arrived at St-Martin-de-Boschervile. They passed the huge church where the road was wide and they were joined by a group of boys laughing and playing with a ball. Erik encouraged his horse into a trot to get away from them, but Nadir did not and when he looked behind he saw that Nadir was smiling at them and engaging them in a joyful conversation, their voices raised with laughter as he told them a made-up tale of the Orient. Oh, to be so easy and full of charm, and confidence, and not to feel compelled at every normal human contact to flee or to hide.

Presently, Nadir caught up with him.

"You've finished with your little friends? We are nearly there. It is just down here." And then, urgently, "you will stay, won't you? You won't leave me there?"

"I will stay with you, Erik."

And as they approached, he felt his heart thunder in his chest and his gloved hands sweat. Is this what Nadir had been so worried about? Erik had not given a single thought to how he would feel when they arrived; he had spent the previous ten years trying to put her from his mind. Now the reality was that he was only minutes away from seeing her again and he was utterly unprepared. He had rarely seen the outside of his house in the daylight and now here it was, with its wall and its gate, the house white-painted and symmetrical, and those two little windows for the room in the roof. The room in the roof -

They stopped the horses a little way up the road and sat in silence, watching. Erik was aware that Nadir was looking at him, not the house.

"Erik – " he spoke quietly, "what would you like to do?"

What would he like to do? The softening effect of the morphine was diminishing now, and he found himself feeling – he hated to admit it – scared. His hands shook as he held the reins and he held on to the front of the saddle to still them.

Erik gave a little laugh. "I think you were right, Nadir. Being here is - seeing this house – it is – it's full of memories." He laughed again, "I feel like a small child." Looking around, he was intensely self-conscious. There had been wild rumours spread about him here, in this village. But the street was empty. The house was silent.

Nadir swung down from his horse and came up to Erik. He placed one hand on Erik's thigh. He looked up at Erik earnestly and said, "you are not a child anymore. You are a man. Anything that you are feeling – they are only your memories. Not what is happening now. We can go there – or we can leave now, and you can say that you came back to look. But know that you are here – right now, and that I am staying with you."

Erik gave him a weak smile in return. He dismounted the horse, held the reins, took a deep breath and said, "Yes. We are here now. I will go and see her."

But as he walked, despite the sighing, snorting presence of the horses, and the feeling of the reins tight in his hand, his knees felt weak and it was almost as if he would leave the ground with fear. They came to halt outside the gate.

"I think, Nadir, I should like to leave. This is not what I thought it would be – "

"We shall leave, then."

But the front door was flung open and out stepped a small woman in a brown dress. She hurried down the path towards them, her hands held up in a gesture of prayer, her mouth a perfect O – half-shrieking, "Oooohh!"

Erik remounted his horse.

"Is she your mother, Erik?" Nadir remained standing and he received no reply from Erik.

The woman reached the gate and wrenched it open.

"Erik! Erik is that you? It is you! Oh! – Wait there!" And then she turned and ran back into the house, shouting, "Madeleine, Madeleine – he has come back! He is here!"

And at the door appeared another woman, slightly taller, with dark hair and in a dark blue dress.

"She is my mother."

The two women came down the path together, the woman in the brown dress coming again to the gate and standing out on the road in front of them, her face a picture of awe and excitement, wringing her hands. Madeleine stopped and stood still in the centre of the path, away from the gate, her hands hanging down by her sides. She bore no expression on her face but looked directly at him.

Erik stared at her.

There was his mother, older, greyer but unmistakably her. She who had failed to rescue him, the woman whose shouts and cries he still heard in his nightmares. If ever he had known regret, he knew it now. What had possessed him to come back?

She made no move towards him.

Erik wasn't sure how long they remained locked in this silent stare. The spell was broken by Nadir clearing his throat and addressing the woman in the brown dress.

"Madame, may I ask your name?"

"Oh! Monsieur – it is Mademoiselle – my name is Marie."

"Ah – it is a pleasure, Mademoiselle Marie. Perhaps there is a place we can tie up the horses in your delightful garden and then Erik and his – ah – mother, can talk inside the house?"

"Oh, oh yes of course! How wonderful it is that Erik is here! We have been waiting for him for so long – " she busied back through the gate and held it open.

"Well, that is a very good thing."

And then Nadir spoke to him; "Erik, dismount from the horse."

Erik looked down at Nadir as if he'd woken from a deep sleep. The word on his lips was No but he seemed to have lost the ability to think or speak and so did as he was told and slid down from the horse.

They walked together into the garden and Nadir took the reins from him while Marie stood, still wringing her hands in delight, watching them. Erik noticed that the woman in the dark dress, his mother, had disappeared silently from the garden, as if she had never been there. When they had secured the horses, they followed Marie into the house.

As they walked up the path Nadir took Erik's hand in his.

They did not part until they stepped over the threshold into the house. The hallway was dark and lead to left into the sitting room, to right into the kitchen, and there was a dark wooden staircase directly in front of them.

It was the smell of the place that made him plummet back, furniture polish and neroli and the all-pervasive smell of cesspit. This banal little house, this crucible of his heart, where he had seen so little but learned so, so much about the punishing conditions of love. He shook his head a little as if to cast off the pall of dread that threatened suffocation, but it was not enough, and he noticed that his hands were again shaking. He shut his eyes and before him came images of his boy-self running through this hallway and up the stairs, sometimes pursued by her, sometimes walking away from her on his own, sent away, sometimes shouting, crying, sometimes in abject silence.

And beyond that, a deeper sense, a primal feeling formed before words, the endless inchoate screaming of an infant before it knew its mind, frenzied with the abandonment that means only death. There would be no peace found here.

The bustling of Marie was enough to start him from his trance. He knew that he had to do something to prevent himself from being pulled away in the undertow of his memories, and with a gesture even he knew to be strange, he took off his hat and pulled the hair at the nape of his neck tighter, tighter in his fist until it hurt, and he felt his messy, weeping heart close up like a trap and an icy clarity grip his mind; he would not be drowned by emotion – he would become only sharp, cold intellect.

Marie insisted on taking their coats and hats. His instinct was to refuse her, but Nadir placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently to give them up, and they were encouraged to go into the sitting-room.

It was far smaller than he remembered, all her strange dark furniture and the piano, and the books – all those books she had bought for him – and the hearth with a meagre fire, and the pictures of her long-dead relatives. With a growing horror he saw that many of the pictures on the walls were his, framed now, as if they were works of art in a museum. His drawings. She had kept them. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt the sockets of his eyes.

"Erik."

They both turned to face her standing stood in the doorway.

He drew himself up to his full height, took pleasure in it, in the width of his shoulders, in just how tiny she seemed now, compared to him. He looked down at her and made his voice low and sonorous. "Mother."

"It has been a long time – too long – you've grown so much. I am – I am so pleased you've come - home." her eyes flicked from Erik to Nadir, "and who is this - ?"

He did not take his eyes from her. "Nadir Khan. He is my lov - friend."

She gasped, and brought her hand to her mouth, "oh!" She blinked. "Well – he, Monsieur Khan is most welcome."

Erik heard Nadir sigh and he inclined his head a little towards him in apology.

She continued "It is a wonderful thing, that you have come here, Erik – I didn't expect you to – to come back. Why don't we sit together? Marie will be in with the tea - " She was trying to play the generous hostess, standing on ceremony even now, but her voice betrayed her nerves; she held her hands tightly over her stomach. She sat down and Nadir followed her, trying to make the best of a supremely awkward situation.

Erik did not know if he could sit obediently in this hateful room. He felt ready to sweep his arm along the mantlepiece, taking everything with it, wrench down the curtains, pull down the pictures from the walls –

Nadir spoke, "Erik, sit down." How did he know?

He gave in to good manners and sat with Nadir on the horrible sofa, back straight, close to him. She was opposite them. Erik said nothing but stared at her. Her face had the fine-veined bloom of a drinker and he wondered why he had ever thought her beautiful. Her eyes were tired, her mouth pinched, she wrung her hands.

"Professor Guizot tells me you are well – "

"Does he? He knows little of my life."

"Oh! I kept all of his letters from him – about you – "

He gave a little shrug and shook his head, in disbelief.

Marie arrived with a huge tray filled with the tea things. She set it down, somewhat chaotically and the women exchanged anxious whispers about what should go where.

Erik and Nadir watched them silently. They had pressed their thighs hard against each other and Erik could not tell which of them had instigated this.

Madeleine looked up when she was satisfied with the arrangements. She offered and poured them both weak tea, which they left to go cold in the cups.

No one spoke for a long time. Madeleine stared into her tea. Marie looked anxiously between the three of them, her teacup rattling on its saucer. Erik continued to stare at his mother, as if he hoped that by doing so he could transmit all he thought of her directly to her brain. What could he possibly say to this woman before him? Where could he possibly begin? He felt full of a mad energy and wanted to remove the mask, her mask, right there and laugh at her horror and run about and shout at her and thunder on the piano. He was a small, angry boy. He gripped his knees. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked loudly.

Then with a little gasp she looked up, "Yes, Erik, I lived for the letters from the Professor about you – who it was that was teaching you, your achievements, where you had travelled to in Europe. I was always so hopeful that you would one day write to me. Or come to visit when you were able. He always intimated that it was impossible for you both to come but there was never a reason – "

He felt his jaw go slack in astonishment. She had wanted to hear from him?

She continued, "I took great comfort, Erik, knowing that I could write to you – when I knew where you were, when you stopped travelling about with the fair - "

"I did not read your letters."

"Oh." She blinked and looked down at her lap. "Oh. I am sorry to hear that. I – I – wanted, always, to send you my – "

"What?"

She looked up at him, eyes desperate, "my love, Erik – my love."

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and laughed, "Jesus Christ – "

"Oh Erik – since the night you left – I have been waiting for you – hoping that you - "

"With the doctor?"

"No, no, he left for Paris soon after the night you disappeared – "

Erik found himself giving a kind of hiss through his teeth. The fucking doctor had left! His throat tightened and he spoke softly. "And you've been waiting for me ever since? The prodigal son returns!"

"I know that we did not part on good terms – Erik – but, believe me, please, believe me when I say that I have yearned for your return – "

"And you have been rehearsing these lines for ten years! I am wondering, Mother, did Guizot tell you of the circumstances in which he found me. In the fair? Because I don't think he ever did. He wanted to spare you."

Her eyes grew wider, "he told me that you were working there, earning money – "

Erik turned to Nadir. "She doesn't know."

He swung his gaze back to her. What little self-control he had been able to gather about him was dissipating, fast. He clenched his fists on his knees. His heart was closed, the words flowed fast. "It seems I must enlighten you. As he chose to spare you the sordid details; my face, which you could never bear to look at, turned out to be a highly profitable draw for those who imprisoned me – for two years!" Why, why was all this coming out now? What was he saying? What good could it do?

"Profitable - ? Imprisoned - ? Whatever do you mean?"

"You were always right – you knew I had the face of a monster – they were able to make money from it - me – prostitute me, as it were." He couldn't stop -

Her eyes were wide, her mouth was open.

"I was in a cage. Like an animal. People paid to stare."

Madeleine rose, her face drained of colour, and slapped her hand over her mouth. Her whole body convulsed, and she ran from the room.

Erik ran after her, shouting, "what did you like to imagine me doing, all that time? Selling flowers?"

She reached the kitchen and vomited into the sink. She made a terrible sound. He could smell the alcohol in the vomit; we are more alike that you know, mother. When she stood up and turned to him there were flecks of it on her lips and chin. He flung her a tea-towel from the table. She wiped her face viciously.

She coughed, "I need water – " her voice was rough and she leaned heavily on the side.

Erik poured a cup of milk from the jug standing near to him on the table. He pushed it across to her. She took a mouthful, her hands shaking and spat it out into the sink. And then she turned back to him.

"We searched for you Erik – we did! We looked so hard for you – me and Dr Barye and Marie! But what could we do? You were gone - I thought you were dead! I thought you must have died from your injuries - in the woods, in the river! The day I received word from Guizot that you were alive was the day I felt as if life had returned to me! What did they do to you, Erik – oh, what did I do to you?"

"What a thing it is to live in blissful ignorance. To be sure I was dead - surely better than knowing the reality of what I endured. I longed for you, Mother – in that cage – but you never came! I looked out for you in the crowds – that came to stare at me– and be horrified by my face – I longed to see you, with every fibre of my being – night after night, day after day – but you never came! When did you decide that I was dead and give up on me? Two days? Two weeks? I waited for you for two years and in the end it was not you who came – but him, who I hardly knew – but by then your betrayal was so deep, so deep, that I never wanted to see you again."

She clutched the cloth to her breast and cried, "it is unbearable – my boy!"

"I was never 'your boy'!" He felt light-headed with the horror of it all. What was she saying?

She brought the cloth to her face and sobbed, "oh, what did I do to you?"

"You know what you did. You had nine years to do it."

She wept even harder into the cloth, and then abruptly took it from her face. "I kept your room for you – expecting your return, ready to welcome you back – even now, it is the same!"

"You did what?"

He turned and ran from the kitchen into the hall and took the stairs three at a time. He burst into his bedroom in the attic and was almost brought to his knees when confronted with the sight of it, the bare floorboards, the shutters wide open, the tiny violin, the bed and the insane constellation of mirrors he had left for her on that last awful night – arranged just as he left them. He stood helpless in the centre of it.

She was close behind him and swung round the doorframe into the room.

"What is this madness?" His voice was hoarse.

"I - I couldn't bear the idea of changing of it – I always hoped that one day – maybe – you - "

"But you hated me!"

"Oh Erik, I didn't hate you – " she held her arms in a gesture of supplication, "I loved you – but – I - we – we were so alone – we drove each other mad – I was so full of love for you the night you left – but it was all too late, too late!"

"You wanted to put me in an asylum – how could I have stayed?"

"I didn't! – it was all him – I sent him away – to save you from him – "

"How was I to know that? How was I to know that you loved me? When hate is all you told me? You couldn't bear me!"

She collapsed onto the little bed and sobbed, "I failed you Erik – I did! – in all the ways – but I realised! I wanted to change! But it was too late! What can possibly be done now?"

He spun away from her to the window. What can possibly be done now? He rested his head on the glass and watched as it steamed up from his breath. The days and weeks and months he had spent looking out of this window, the nights he had escaped through it to find freedom in the dark woods. She had imprisoned him here, his body and his soul, behind locked doors, behind masks, instilled in him a profound knowledge of his own ugliness both inside and out; hammered into him that he was only acceptable when masked, when he hid the truth of himself, when he covered his shame. She dug for him a deep well of shame and she had thrown him into it.

And then the fair had made that well so deep that he had been utterly lost in its darkness, to himself and to others, sure that he could never escape the foulness of his very being.

And yet! And yet!

Erik knew that there had been people who had reached down to him in the depths of his shame and darkness. Marie, with her funny words and her worrying, and then Guizot – stony Guizot who nevertheless had been a kind of unmoving rock upon which he had found stability and support and been able to take his first faltering steps back to humanity, and Giradin, who seemed too thrilled with Erik's abilities to care one jot about his face, an acceptance that came with complete and blessed disinterest.

And then there was Nadir – who had truly and honestly seen him and had not gasped or run away but had kissed him – many times - and who had not looked away as he cried in his shame, and was here now, a living proof that, yes – he could be accepted, as he was. Loved. Did he still need from his mother what he was now beginning to realise for himself?

He turned back to her. What can possibly be done now? She seemed in a state of collapse on the bed, head in her hands, a silent misery. She had been three years younger than he was now when he had been born and she had been left quite alone with him. Could he have done any better with such a child that he had been? What chance had either of them had?

He wore a mask and her face was shrouded with tears.

As he looked at her, sitting there, for the first time in his life he allowed himself to feel pity for her; she was no longer the terror of his heart, the bitter witch, the wicked mother, but a sad and broken failure of a woman.

Ever so gently he said, "I have to take the mask off – "

She shook her head not looking up, and said, almost to herself, "I should never have done that to you – never, never, never! It was a great sin."

He couldn't help but give a little laugh, oh, but you did, didn't you? He reached up, untied it and brought it away from his face and put it carefully on the chest of drawers.

Then she looked at him and tried to smile through her tears. She got to her feet, taking a few paces towards him and opened her arms to embrace him.

He held her away by her shoulders.

She looked up at him again with shock. "Oh, Erik – "

"I do not need that now, from you," he said softly, "he, Nadir, was able to look at my face and do what you could never bring yourself to do. I do not need that from you now, mother."

She gave a moan and rolled her head. Her face crumpled back into misery. She felt limp in his hands, he thought she might faint. "Oh Erik, Erik – can I ever be forgiven?"

He was startled by a noise at the door. Nadir was watching them. He nodded at Erik, as if to say let her.

He released his grip on her shoulders and she fell into his arms, propelled by a force they were both powerless to resist. She sobbed into his chest words that he did not understand and very slowly he brought his arms up to encircle her. She was tiny and frail. He held her while she sobbed and if it was not forgiveness that he felt, it was a kind of peace blossomed in his heart that needed no words, no explanation. And he thought, what a strange and wonderful thing it is to be alive, and not dead, so that things can change, at least a little bit.

When she had cried herself to exhaustion, she pulled away from him and looked up at him intensely, studying every inch of his exposed face. And then she gave a great shuddering sniff and wiped her face shakily with the tips of her fingers, pulling at the skin around her eyes, trying to catch her snot with her thumb. He wished he was the sort of man to carry a handkerchief that he could have offered to her, but he was not and so he smiled at her weakly and said stupidly, "we are both ugly now," and she almost laughed but she mainly sobbed, bringing her hands up to completely cover her face in a way that Erik knew he himself had done so many times before.

He stood helplessly before his sobbing mother. Erik had thought it would be he who would be sobbing, here in this awful house, but as slowly and as softly as the melting of the ice in spring, he realised that he was, in a mysterious way, releasing her from his heart. And perhaps, with the melting of the ice into water, everything that she had done to him, everything that she had failed to do, that great and catastrophic list, could be washed away, the stain she left in his heart made clean.

And in a gesture that would look so simple to anyone who didn't know the way they had both tormented each other, he allowed himself to reach out to her, gently placing his hand on her upper arm, and gave her the tiniest of caresses; I know, I know. His eyes filled with tears as she put her hand over his, and they remained like this, gazing at each other for some moments.

After a while, Nadir spoke from the doorway. "I shall ask Marie to make us some more tea?"

Both Erik and his mother took a shuddering intake of breath. They sounded uncannily similar.

Madeleine turned to Nadir and put on her brightest voice. "Thank you, monsieur. How considerate. I think we are all in need of a little refreshment – " She turned back to Erik, and gave a high laugh, eyes wide, " - after all this!"

And they both followed Nadir down the two flights of stairs, into the kitchen, where they sat at the ancient kitchen table and more tea was made, and a simple lunch was produced, and all the while Erik felt deeply awkward and exposed at being allowed here, at the table, without the mask; he struggled not to feel like a small boy and kept looking down at his man's hands and at Nadir to remind himself who he was. But despite all this confusion and strangeness he was aware that sitting here at the scarred table, without a mask, was possibly the most important thing he had ever done in his entire life.

Marie, who was endlessly busy with the lunch things, gave a large and beaming smile at the sight him so unmasked – was it a smile vindication or triumph or joy? – he couldn't tell, but good god, the blessed Marie, surely a living saint for having put up with him and his mother for so many years, and for still being here, patient and kind, endlessly loving.

And although the conversation wasn't easy, didn't flow, it felt like the start of something that was new and good. There was still so much between them that was left unsaid that it would take a lifetime of talking and of crying to ever get to the bottom of it. For now, they took refuge from it all in simple conversation, in the sharing of bread. Erik told the women of his life in Paris, about Giradin and Madame Hervé's horrible food and about how he and Nadir had met, and his mother gave them both a knowing look. And the women spoke of their lives in Boscherville, how little had changed, the new priest, the poor apple harvest, the dreadful scandals, and Erik said he was glad to have escaped because it all sounded so dreadfully dull, and no one really knew if he was joking.

And then his mother stood up suddenly and said that they needed brandy to celebrate Erik's return. Marie made a little noise in disagreement – it was too early, surely? - but Madeleine swept from the room to get the bottle, and Erik noticed that Marie's smile slipped from her face.

She soon returned, looking too eager. "Who would like some? Marie – I know you don't! Erik – you shan't refuse, shall you? – and Nadir some for you?"

"No, Madame, I do not partake – "

She looked as confused as Erik had done on hearing that Nadir didn't drink.

"Ah, it is just you and me, Erik. It is good to know that at least you are able to have a little celebration!"

She poured two huge glasses of brandy for them both – we are so much more alike that you know, mother. And he thought how extraordinarily strange it was to be sitting here, at this table, unmasked and drinking with a woman he had, up until an hour ago, regarded as his life-long tormentor.

The first glass went down too quickly, as was his wont, and he was struck by a manic, wild feeling that his life was turning into some ridiculous carnival, where anything at all could happen – up would be down, right would be wrong, and he could sit at his mother's kitchen table with his lover and get drunk with her on cheap brandy. Erik noticed that she was returning to something like the woman he remembered – sharp and quick witted and a little rude, and he found himself sharing in her humour, with the relief of it all, and the brandy making them both hectic and silly.

She drained the last of her glass. "Erik – another! I feel like we have only just begun our reunion!"

He smiled and pushed his glass towards her. "Of course – " What sort of drunk would she be?

Nadir placed his hand on Erik's forearm. "I think, Erik, that we should be leaving now – we do not want to be riding in the dark, especially if the weather turns – "

He stretched out in his chair, holding the back of his neck. "Just one more, Nadir – and then we shall leave. I have not seen my mother for over ten years!" He knew Nadir was right, but he also knew that he wanted to drink, and there was an anger in him at being told to stop.

She took the glass and refilled it with glee and pushed it back to him.

Nadir gripped his arm harder, and then pulled Erik towards him, so that he could whisper into his ear. "Do not humiliate yourself now, like this – you know what she is. You need to stop because she will not. Tell her that we are leaving."

Erik pulled away and looked at Nadir. He instantly felt tearful and embarrassed, as if yet again, he was failing in all the myriad ways it was possible to fail. He felt his breath hitch.

He put his arms on the table and leant forwards. He tried to smile at his mother. "Ah, Madeleine. It would be good to join you with more, but Nadir is right. We must leave now before the light starts to fall – "

"It seems your friend has you under his thumb, Erik."

He bowed his head. Whether it was out of shame or assent, he couldn't tell.

"It is a good thing! At least someone can control you – I never could – "

He took a large gulp from the glass she had poured him and stood up. Marie had long since stopped smiling but now she seemed re-animated and she got up from her chair and hurried off to get their coats. Maybe she knew a disaster had been averted.

Madeleine remained seated, holding her glass. She looked as deflated as Erik felt. The fight for propriety and sanity had become as hard for her as it was for him.

Erik moved to her and spoke quietly. "I am sure I will return, maybe soon, without these two, and we can finish the bottle together." He reached for it and put the bung back in the top. "Save it for me, will you?" He knew she would not.

She looked up at him and stood up in a rush. "You will return, Erik – won't you? It is so dreadfully sad here – I, I – don't really know what to do with myself – "

"If I can, I will – " Ah, what was he saying?

And then she threw herself into his arms again, and all but shouted, "I am terrible, dreadful woman – "

And because of the brandy he was able to lean down and softly kiss the top of her stale head and said with something like a smile, "yes. Yes, I think that you are." And you produced a dreadful son, so maybe that makes us equal?

He extricated himself from her and went into the hallway. Nadir had evidently been back up to the attic bedroom and retrieved the mask. He handed it to Erik and Erik couldn't decide if this was a deep insult or a kindness. He put it back on out of habit.

And then they were dressed for the weather and they walked down the garden with the women, who watched as they mounted the horses and came to the gate and waved as they rode away.

As soon as they left the village, Erik pushed his horse to a gallop and when the horse was at full pelt, he gave a great cry into the wind and the rain, and he knew in his heart that he would never see her again.

Notes:

In Kay's book, on the night that Erik runs away from home, Madeleine has a massive revelation about herself, does a whole lot of growing up and realises that she loves him after all and resolves to burn all the masks. But of course, it's TOO LATE because when she wakes up he's gone and it's tragedy all the way from there. Kay has him return to see her when he is aged about 31 (and I think she must be about 48) but when he arrives ELLE EST MORT, and has been for a mere three days and they never get their reunion so it's even more TRAGIC.

So I wanted to allow her to say the things she wanted to say to Erik. I wanted to allow him to say the things he needs to say to her, and get over her a bit. I'm not sure you can get ever completely get over your mother, though. And I think, to be honest, dealing with your mother - even a fairly sane mother - takes a lifetime. (I say that as someone who is a mother!)

Thank you to aldonza and paperandsong for coping with me flailing about at them when I couldn't think of any words at all with which to write this chapter. The least you can say about it now is that there are actually words in it. Words help.