Chapter 2

Ryan was less pleased to find his mother at home but it was no surprise to him. She was a political journalist so worked from home, spending much of her time writing. They had moved to Port Talbot from London, England, chasing his mother’s dream of the big story and limited by their funds as to where they could live.

Before London, and when he was too young to remember, it had been Montgomery, Alabama, where Ryan was born. His mother’s precise English still held traces of a southern states’ drawl. After she called Jamie “you all”, his friend delighted in trying out the phrase for weeks, entertaining Ryan with a broad Port Talbot “yo-ew-orll” version of his mother’s relaxed “y’all”.

He had tried to explain to Jamie what was wrong with his mother but, “She’s just too much” had been the best he could manage. She had opinions on everything. She would ask, “What do you think?” and then she would interrupt him, to ensure he reached the right conclusion and agreed with her.

He was the result of her opinions on bringing up children. Worse than that, he was the result of her opinions on the right of a single woman to be a mother. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know he’d been fathered by a sperm bank, although he could remember thinking it was like the bank they went to for money, only you got babies there.

It had come as a shock to find out that other children had not been got from the bank, and he’d been lucky to move school again afterthat conversation. It wasn’t that he blamed his mother exactly; there were just some things he’d rather not know or talk about.

Discussing everything was another of his mother’s more difficult habits, and he deeply envied the way Jamie could hide within her own home, as people came and went all round her. He felt the pressure of his mother’s attention like a TV camera and hand-held mike following him round, while a spotlight tracked him.

“Hi, hon, had a good day? Learn much?”

Mothers! “Good, fine, yeah.”

“I thought I’d do Kentucky Fried Chicken tonight. Would you like that?”

“That would be great.” His mother hated cooking and K.F.C. was treat food. What was she up to? “I’ll go do some schoolwork.” He escaped to his computer.

Perhaps he’d mail Jamie or even see if she was online in the chat room? No, he’d dig up some stuff on left-handers first. It would be good for his friend to have some role models. His mother knew all the theory about role models and had bored him silly with details of sensitive, male, high achievers “just like he was going to be”.

“One father would have been enough!” he’d shouted at her, one really bad time. That had led to several weeks of jolly men friends of his mother’s visiting and having man-to-man chats with him, or talking about football, in which he had no interest.

He logged on, searched for ‘famous left-handers’, visited a couple of websites, and printed out some lists. He put circles around the interesting names, a few of which should leave Jamie well impressed. He went back over the names he’d circled, putting five stars by the best, until he’d got the names down to a top 10. He wanted a range of different types of famous people, and he had to make some tough choices.

In the end, it came down to Bill Clinton or Jimi Hendrix, and if you had to choose between a Presid