Dear Sarah,
Well, I suppose you’ve heard the news.
My boy's been arrested, and he’s not talking to
anyone. Not even me. His mother, for heaven’s sake.
I can imagine the gossip in the village market this
week. I bet they’re lapping it up, aren’t they? Especially that bitch Katy from
the bakers. She must be having a field day. She’s always been jealous.
Our boys were
born on the same day, in the same hospital. Did you know that? And, if you
wanted proof that there’s absolutely nothing to all the rubbish about star
signs and horoscopes, it was those two lads. They grew up just a few blocks
from each another, too. Matt was a loud, annoying child as soon as he was old
enough to kick a ball around in the back streets. Always making a racket with
the other lads after school when my boy was trying to read his books.
Not that it’s surprising. My son had my undivided love
and attention, while Katy had five other brats to take care of. No wonder that
Matt went feral. Even now, he’s nothing more than a glorified barrow boy, for
all his millions and that awful, extravagant house he’s built just outside
town.
I can’t help wondering what I did wrong. How I failed
my boy. He had everything he ever wanted growing up - not that he ever asked
for much. He was clever too, too clever for those idiots they called teachers
at the village school. How else could he have possibly have been ‘just’ an
average student?
So how we did end up here, with him sitting in prison
and refusing see anyone? I wish I knew.
Personally, I blame that lecturer at college. Filled
his head with all sorts of ideas. Introduced him to unsavoury sorts who filled
my nice, clean house with smoke, loud music and long conversations late into
the night. Eating my food without even a “thank you”as if I was some kind of
skivvy serving at the table of their ‘higher cause’. They sat around talking
about equality and fraternity – but who did the washing up when they’d all
passed out on the living room floor? Yes, you guessed it.
And then there was that strumpet, always hanging on
his arm. Stroking his hair like he was her special pet. Like he was her
property. Not even she had the common decency to offer a helping hand when I
fetched and carried as they plotted late into the night. Playing the Lady –
like I didn’t know where she’d come from, or what she really was.
But did I ever complain, or leave them wanting? No.
Not once.
Let’s face it, they were the first group who ever really befriended
him, the first friends he’d ever had over for a meal. I could hardly turn them
away, could I?
The only one who showed the slightest decency towards
to me was that Jude. A strange lad. Always so intense, so much in earnest. A
little bit too eager. A little bit too fey (not that he stood a chance with my
boy). But to give credit where it’s due, Jude was the only one to speak to me
like I mattered. His praise of me as “the woman that made the man who leads” us
was almost embarrassing at times. Almost.
I wonder what’s become of him now?
Sarah, I want you to do me a favour. When they ask you
what you know about the whole thing (and let’s face it, they will, everyone
knows you’re my favourite cousin) just tell them that he’s a victim of wrongful
arrest. That it’s all been a huge mistake, it’s a conspiracy, and that he’ll be
out soon. That one day, they’ll be proud to tell the world that he came from
THEIR village.
And if my mother asks you, just tell her that her
grandson has gone abroad to study for a few years.
Please write back soon, and let me know what that
fishwife Katy has been saying. I wouldn’t wish ill on anyone, you know that,
but so far as I’m concerned she can go drown in all those fancy cushions her
loud-mouthed son has swamped her with from the leftover stock from his
import-export business.
And just one more thing? Can you drop this
cheque in the collection box when you go to church on Sunday? Just make sure
you leave it open so everyone can see who it’s from.
Meanwhile, I’ll give my boy your love when he finally
agrees to see me. And I’ll let him know that you’ll have a plate of your famous
almond pastries waiting for him when he gets comes home.
Because he will, of course, be coming home.
Won’t he?
With love,
Your cousin, Mary.
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