We are sitting at a tall table, my friends and I. “Tell the story of the fish poem guy,” Kristy suggests to me. “I love this story,” she says to her date. We’re at a bar for quiz night in mid 2017. It was our favourite quiz at the time, even though the questions were obscure and difficult and we never won. There was something homely about it: the polite English quizmaster who wrote the questions herself, the casual pizza fare, the dowdy decor.
“Ok, so I met this guy on Tinder,” I begin. It’s one of those dating stories that gets retold whenever someone new joins the group. I tell Kristy’s date about my awkward date with a whiskey-drinking fisherman, the odd follow up conversation, and how he had written me terrible poetry.
A slim man with a salt-and-pepper goatee approaches our table and is speaking to me. “Are you Caspian’s mother?” He says.
I am about to deliver the punchline, where the fish poem guy added me on Facebook and said some strange things, so I pause in annoyance, noticing that Caspian (7) has reappeared from where he was playing, and is hiding under the table.
“Yes…?” I say.
“I need to speak with you. Can you come with me?”
“Oh, has he done something wrong?”
“No, no,” says the man, and he stands there quietly. My friends and I share glances; wondering what he’s up to.
“Ok…”
“Can you come with me please?” He asks again. He holds out his hand and introduces himself. “I'm Manu.*”
“Charlotte,” I say, shaking his hand. “I'm a bit confused - what’s going on?”
“I just want to talk to his mother.”
“These are my friends, I'm happy for them to listen to anything to do with Caspian.”
“You can bring one friend,” Manu says. He offers nothing to fill the gaps, he simply stands there. I feel uncomfortable and vaguely threatened, but he seems prepared to wait in silence. We keep looking at him expectantly, willing him to say more without us having to engage with him, but he doesn’t. We are at a standoff, mystified and discomfited.
“I'll come with you,” says Gretta. Gretta is a magical combination of close friend and mother hen; she’s one of those special people who somehow makes everything ok. I shrug in acquiescence. We get up from our seats, leaving Caspian with the rest of the group, and stand a few metres away from the table.
“Further,” Manu says. We walk a few more paces. “Further,” he says again, and the three of us walk through the glass doors and stand there in clear sight - but not earshot - of the others.
“I'm Manu,” he says, shaking Gretta’s hand. She responds in kind, and then he introduces himself to me for the second time.
“I'm Charlotte,” I repeat.
“That's not what he called you,” says Manu, motioning to my Spiderman-costumed son who is still under the table, watching us.
“What did he call me?” I am baffled.
“Caspian’s Mum.”
“Oh…” We stand in silence again. “Did he do something?”
“No, no he didn’t. But I was that kid.”
Gretta and I look at each other. Manu is standing a little too close for comfort.
“I'm sorry, we're a bit confused about what you're trying to say,” Gretta says.
“I've had six beers. Sorry,” Manu says. “He shouldn't be talking to someone like me. I was that kid. He's too inquisitive and friendly.”
I want to say how proud I am that my kid is friendly, that he doesn't judge by appearances, that he has been kept so safe for his seven-and-a-half years that he doesn't know he might have something to fear from “someone like” Manu. But I say nothing. There is always that doubt: what if I’m wrong? What if this is not a safe place?
“Can I hold your hand?” Manu asks Gretta, who reluctantly, but kindly, holds out her hand. “He shouldn't be in this fucking environment!” He bursts out. “I watched my mum and dad get pissed and stomp all over me!”
Gretta and I glance at each other again, and I wonder if Manu is going to cry. “Ah, you're concerned about him,” said Gretta. “That's very sweet of you, but I promise you I've known Charlotte for a few years and this is the first time she's taken him to a bar. None of us are drunk. He’s very safe.”
I am surprised. It hadn't occurred to me that someone might be disapproving, accustomed as I was to positive feedback about my parenting. How is it not obvious that my son is safe? I look around the bar: it is brightly lit and un-crowded, the patrons are calm, we were there at 6.30pm on a Wednesday for a quiz. There is a Hells Pizza at the top of the stairs. Gretta is right, I'd never taken Caspian to a bar before, because I usually only go out when he's with his dad. But I'd made a considered judgement that he'd have a good time and be safe. He was never out of eyesight.
“It's no place for a kid. Look,” Manu says, and he takes his false teeth out, accidentally dropping them on the threadbare carpet. I cringe when he puts them straight back in, and immediately hope my cringe wasn’t visible.
“Sorry,” he says. “This is what happens to kids in bars.”
And that's when it sinks in that this man isn't judging, he is heavily triggered by the chatty, innocent, messy-haired boy who had said hello to him by the pokie machines. He couldn't see me, he wasn't able to judge that Caspian was safe, all he could see was himself in a scary, painful past. I am stunned that to this man, I appear to be someone who could be dangerous to my own child. “Can’t you tell?” I want to say. Can’t you tell I am a good mother? But of course, he can’t.
“I'm sorry that happened to you,” I say. I am still uncomfortable, but I am realising that this isn’t about me at all. It’s about a hurt little boy inside a grown man, and another innocent little boy he is trying to protect. “Thank you for caring about my son. I promise he's safe, I would never hurt him.” My heart aches at the thought that for this man, mothers are not the kind, protective beings that Caspian believes we are. I remember the foster child I cared for briefly, that his mother didn't protect him either. There were marks all over his little body. “They aren’t cigarette burns,” the social worker had explained to me. “They’re impetigo scars. He’s been treated now. The headlice are gone too.”
“Can I have a hug?” Manu asks Gretta
“Ah, no, sorry,” said Gretta. I'm glad he didn't ask me, I would have declined too. He stands there in silence again. “Ok. Well, thanks for your concern. We promise he’s fine. We're going to go back in now,” says Gretta. Manu nods and follows us back through the glass doors. He returns to the pokie machines and we go back to our table, where our friends ask us what happened.
“Can we go home now, Mum?” Caspian says.
“We'll go in a few minutes,” I say, “but don't worry. You're not in trouble or anything.” My boy cares about doing the right thing so much that one time when he said “shit” he bawled his eyes out. I hadn’t told him off, I’d simply asked, in case I misheard, “did you just say ‘shit’?” He had looked at me with his lip trembling. “I just don’t know what all the words mean yet, Mum, I didn’t mean to!” When he accidentally hurts me, I end up having to comfort him, as he gets so upset by the idea of hurting his mother. He is a child who has been raised to see the good, and he wants to be the good.
“What was that man saying?” He is anxious; he has been implicated in something beyond his understanding.
“He was just telling us about a bad experience he had when he was little. It was nothing to do with you, you just reminded him of being a kid.”
“Oh, ok,” says Caspian, and then Kristy starts playing with him for distraction. She is the designated fun friend - the one who runs around with him, and takes him trick-or-treating round the neighbourhood. I finish telling the dating story to Kristy’s date, but we are all a little unsettled by Manu, and the hilarity of the ending is dimmed.
This is how trauma lasts, I think. This is what abuse does: a middle-aged man, barely able to put sentences together, taking his teeth out in a bar. Asking for a hug from a stranger because he was beaten instead of held, and he hasn't been able to heal in all the decades that have passed.
*His name changed for privacy.