Tracey Emerson worked in theatre and community arts (running drama workshops focused on mental health in community and healthcare settings) before she turned to writing fiction. She’s had pieces published in anthologies and literary magazines such as Mslexia, Gutter Magazine, and The Istanbul Review (just to name a few).
Tracey’s debut novel, She Chose Me, was released on October 15th 2018 by Legend Press. As she’s recounted in her interview, Tracey’s novel is a psychological thriller which suspensefully details a life-changing mystery. In the below excerpt, we find two of its characters on the verge of a long-anticipated reunion–after a certain fashion…
Friday, 3 July 2015
There she was. My mother. Sitting in the café at the heart of the Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green. I’d found her. So many years apart, and finally there we were. Cassie Harrington and her mother, about to have lunch together. I could hardly believe it. She couldn’t have chosen a more fitting place for us to visit. My second favourite tourist attraction in the whole of London.
She looked so out of place. A childfree woman, surrounded by tables packed with parents and their manic offspring. She glanced around her, seeming so lost and uncomfortable I almost felt sorry for her.
I’d hoped we might enjoy our lunch alone, but shortly after my mother arrived, her friend turned up. From the way they hugged and the frenzied tone of their greetings I could tell they hadn’t seen each other for some time. I stayed in position at the table behind hers, sipping my Earl Grey tea, observing my mother as she chose her lunch at the café counter and carried it back to the table on a tray, unaware of me watching her.
The museum throbbed with the shrieking, squealing and laughter of the hyped-up children bouncing around it. The iron-frame structure soaring overhead kept the noise trapped beneath it. The two floors of galleries that rose up either side of us were packed. Visitors leant on the railings, gazing down at us in the open-plan space below. Hordes of primary school kids waving worksheets pelted round the outskirts of the café before veering off to explore the glass display cabinets on the first floor. Every Saturday for the past nine weeks, I’d trailed the exhibits there, marvelling at the toys and games of the past as well as those of my own era. Imagining the other childhoods I might have had and the mother I might have spent them with.
The general din smothered most of the conversation at my mother’s table, but I picked up the odd exchange. Her friend–a Californian woman called Zoe dressed in flowery yoga pants–explained that the museum was just round the corner from her brother’s flat so she thought it would be an easy place to meet.
‘It’s fine,’ my mother said. ‘The food’s pretty good.’
I pointed my phone in my mother’s direction and took what I knew would be the first of many pictures. She looked good for her age. Tall, quite slim. Hadn’t let herself go. I couldn’t help making comparisons between us. She had short, dark hair, whilst mine fell in thick blonde waves past my shoulders. I felt betrayed by my bright blue eyes but reasoned that lots of daughters have different coloured eyes than their mothers.
My mother and Zoe reminisced about Singapore. Sounded like they’d lived there at the same time.
‘Honestly, Grace,’ Zoe said, ‘we haven’t had half as much fun since you left.’
Grace. Such a beautiful name.
A man and a small, blonde-haired boy occupied the table to my mother’s left. The child, happy and boisterous, clapped his hands together and began to chant at full volume.
‘Alfie the bear,’ he said, ‘Alfie the bear. Alfie, Alfie, Alfie the bear.’
The chanting continued. The boy’s father, eyes fixed on his phone, made no attempt to quieten his son, an error that earned him black looks from my mother and her friend.
‘This is my idea of hell,’ my mother said in a stage whisper, and they both laughed.
I’d always wondered how she’d act around kids, and now I knew. Her flippant comment hurt me, and I began to wonder why I’d bothered. Why did I want to be with her anyway, after what she’d done to me?
The boy stood up on his chair. ‘Alfie the bear,’ he yelled, ‘Alfie the bear.’ His father looked up from his mobile and gave him a half-hearted order to sit down. ‘Alfie,’ the boy continued, ‘Alfie, Alfie Alfie the—’
His chair tipped backwards, sending him flying. His father reached out, but my mother got there first, catching the boy as he fell. I smiled, thrilled and relieved at this demonstration of her maternal instinct.
After my mother had lowered the boy to the ground and the father had stopped thanking her, she sat down again and rolled her eyes at Zoe. They continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, but I could tell the incident had ruffled her. She didn’t finish her lunch, and she kept checking her watch when Zoe wasn’t looking.
When they stood up and strolled towards the museum entrance, I joined them, pleased to overhear that Zoe’s visit to the UK was only a flying one. As they said their goodbyes, my mother assured her friend they would see each other soon.
‘Absolutely,’ Zoe agreed. She walked away, stopping once to wave before she disappeared from our sight. My mother turned to go in the opposite direction and then hesitated. She glanced back at the museum entrance, and I could see how much she wanted to explore the place. How it had cast its spell on her.
Giving in to herself, she dashed inside. I waited, not wanting to follow too close. When I did enter the main building, she came storming towards me in a hurry, her face tight and angry. As if she couldn’t cope with what the museum and its contents must have reminded her of. As if she had to get out of there as soon as she could.
***
Our first day out together didn’t end there. After leaving the museum, we took the tube from Bethnal Green. Two line changes later, we exited the underground at Angel and turned left. At the end of Upper Street, we turned left again onto City Road. Unfamiliar with the area, I took pictures of the street signs for future reference.
We crossed over to Goswell Road and kept going, the traffic relentless at our side. She set a fast pace in her trainers, and I struggled to keep up in my wedge sandals. Trust me to have a mother who’d rather walk than catch the bus.
The late afternoon sun still had a sting, and before long my pink shift dress was sticking to my back and stomach. My mother marched on ahead, unruffled in grey linen trousers and a white T-shirt, her arms swinging at her sides.
We turned left into Lever Street and a few minutes later took another left towards a block of high-rise flats. After passing an Astroturf pitch surrounded by a wire fence, my mother headed for the front entrance of the grubby white block. Northfield Heights. I waited by a row of recycling bins while she entered a code into a keypad by the front door.
As soon as she disappeared inside, I hurried over to the area of patchy grass and trees in front of her block–the optimistically named North Green Park. I spotted a metal bench partly hidden by a droopy oak and got myself settled. To my right and left stood four-storey blocks of flats. Satellite dishes clung to their balconies, fighting for space with dead plants and racks of washing. Hardly the nicest of areas and not where I’d pictured my mother residing.
My eyes scanned her building, looking for a sign. Where was she? My body shook and a wave of nausea rolled through me. Fear or excitement? I was twenty years old, but felt reborn. As though my life had just begun.
A light flicked on and off again in one of the upper windows of the building. I counted upwards to the ninth floor. My mother? The usual emptiness hovered at my edges. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to hug it away.
Then she appeared at the window.
I spy with my little eye. Something beginning with G.
I decided then and there to buy some binoculars. My mother stared out of the window for some time, off into the distance. She probably thought she was looking at the view, but I knew better. She was searching for something. She was searching for me.
She Chose Me is out now from Legend Press and is available both in stores and online. You can follow Tracey for more literary updates via her website and Twitter, and you can read her interview with the Ogilvie team here.