I Trust You (13 page)

Chapter 24

‘C
live was headmaster of a huge comprehensive school in New Cross Gate. He took up the position when they moved here. According to Anne, he ran the place like a military operation.’

              ‘I can totally imagine that.’ Marisa laughed, slipping her arm through his as they strolled by the Thames. ‘I don’t remember anything about my social worker, although I suppose I must have had one.’

              ‘Anne took a particular interest in all her wards. I wasn’t the only child she visited at Blackstone Road over the years.’

              ‘I wonder why she doesn’t recall me then. Anne claims to have no recollection of my case at all.’

              ‘Perhaps your birth parents lived in a different borough?’

‘Then why did I end up at the Dorans?’

              They stopped walking and leant against the railings of the embankment. A huge pleasure cruiser passed by and several of the passengers waved.

              ‘We could just rent a flat here in London, both get jobs and forget our past lives completely,’ Marisa said dreamily. ‘It’s the perfect place to simply disappear.’

              ‘Would you really ever be content without knowing exactly what role Gerald played in your adoption, or whether he orchestrated your marriage to Eliot and
why
, for heaven’s sake?’

              Marisa sighed. ‘No, I wouldn’t. And I know you would never leave your boys. But we can still dream for a couple of hours, can’t we?’

              Lee placed his arm around her shoulders. They walked along Whitehall and into St James’s Park. It was teeming with tourists looking for a green space to have their lunch. The benches facing the ponds were full. Picnic mats were dotted across the gentle hills of the park, reaching right down to the band stand. 

              One of the paths took the pair through an avenue of plane trees. They emerged opposite one of the park’s restaurants. Marisa was desperate for a seat and a cold drink but could see the place was packed. Every outdoor table was occupied.

              Her eyes moved up to the balcony, which provided a shaded seating area on the second floor. It too was crammed with customers. That’s where she spotted him.

              He was perched on a seat by the glass guard rail. Next to him was a baby in a high chair that looked like it should be an exhibit at the Tate Modern. The parents were probably a bit younger than Marisa, both tanned and good-looking. Her vision was drawn again to the boy. His hair was the whitest blond and his t-shirt the brightest red she’d ever seen.

              Lee caught her arm. ‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’

              Her head was beginning to swim. ‘It’s him! The little boy I saw on the cliff top. There he is!’

              Lee was about to take issue with this statement when Marisa broke free of his grip and made a dash for the entrance to the restaurant.

              A long queue of very hot and frustrated looking people stood between her and a stern manager who was barring entry with his clipboard. Marisa pushed past them all, ignoring the tuts and glares she received.

              ‘I need to get inside. Somebody I know is up on the balcony. I’ve got to catch them before they go!’ Her words were delivered breathlessly.

              ‘It doesn’t work like that madam,’ the manager replied with barely suppressed irritation. ‘There’s a very long queue
and
a waiting list.’ He tapped the clipboard with his pen.

              ‘But I don’t want to order food.’

              ‘Then you’re in the wrong place, darling,’ some smart arse in the queue shouted. There was a ripple of laughter.

              Marisa felt as if her heart was going to jump out of her chest it was beating so fast. ‘You don’t fucking understand!’

              ‘Oh, I think I do.’ The prissy manager flicked his hand in the direction of a pair of security guards standing by the till.

              Before she knew what was happening, Marisa was being escorted to the perimeter of the park. Lee jogged along behind, remonstrating to no avail with the two burly men the entire way.

*

When her sobs had finally subsided, Marisa lifted her head and scanned the area. ‘We might still see them as they leave the park,’ she said desperately.

              Lee was gently rubbing her back. ‘There must be a dozen entrances and exits.’

              She turned to look at him directly. His brow was creased with concern. ‘You think I imagined it.’

              ‘No, but I think there must be a hundred little blond boys in London.’

              Marisa felt the tears course down her cheeks once again. ‘He was so similar to the child who’s been appearing to me. The red of his t-shirt and the paleness of his hair were unmistakeable.’

              He took her hand. ‘If this is a boy you have memories of, somebody from your past, then he isn’t still going to be two years old, is he? The boy will be a grown up, he’ll look just like us.’

              Marisa thought about this. ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’

              Lee leant down and kissed the tears from her cheeks. ‘You’re on the run from your previous life. It’s been an intense few days, that’s all. Let me take you back to the Hunters’ place.’ He slowly helped her up.

Marisa allowed him to lead her towards the tube station, but something made her glance back over her shoulder. It felt as if she were leaving something behind, something important. The significance of the little boy suddenly became absolutely clear to her.

Without him, she was not complete.              

Chapter 25

T
he Hunters allowed her to sleep in. By the time she’d made it downstairs it was eleven. Anne appeared to be the only one in the house. She placed a full teapot on the kitchen table as soon as Marisa entered.

              ‘Take a seat, lovey. The tea’s brewed.’

              ‘Thanks.’

              ‘You’ve had a good rest, that’s what’s important.’

              ‘Where’s Lee?’

              ‘He and Clive went out first thing this morning. They said something about taking the car up to Kew. It seems an odd time for them to develop an interest in horticulture. But when you’ve been married for as long as we have you learn to go with the flow.’

              ‘Lee probably just wanted a break from me. I certainly don’t blame him after yesterday.’

              ‘I’m sure that isn’t true. He was very concerned about you last evening. He and Clive stayed up till late talking about the incident.’

              ‘There can’t have been much to say.’ Marisa finished her tea. ‘Maybe I should go out somewhere too. It’s another glorious day.’

              ‘Perhaps, but nothing too strenuous. Lee would never forgive me if I allowed any harm to come to you while he’s gone.’

*

Marisa wandered along the Hunters’ road towards Fordham Park. She wore a light cotton dress and dark sunglasses. She was used to the strength of the sun, but the heat was all the more oppressive here in the centre of the built up city. For the first time since leaving White Bay, Marisa suddenly realised she missed being by the sea. With or without Eliot, it was where she belonged.

              The park was busy. An area of state of the art play equipment was full of mums with their little ones. Marisa imagined the older children filling this green space later in the day, when school had finished. These were the routines which demarcated people’s lives. It felt as if she and Lee had temporarily stepped outside of the boundaries of ordinary existence. Would they ever be able to return to it again?

              Marisa tried hard to avert her gaze from the play park. She was frightened of seeing that little boy once more. Real or imagined, it felt as if the child was haunting her.

              Instead, she headed for a display in the centre of the green. An area had been fenced off and entry was granted through a little wooden gate. Within it, was a beautiful garden created entirely out of natural materials. In the very centre stood the tall, sturdy trunk of a tree, but all around it were carved a set of tiny, detailed hand prints. Marisa ran her fingers across the little carvings, marvelling at how intricate they were.

              Suddenly, she heard a voice beside her.

              ‘They’re sweet aren’t they?’

              Marisa turned to see who had spoken. She’d not previously noticed the wooden bench where this lady must have been seated. The woman was a little older then her, with fashionably cropped reddish hair. The tiniest gold stud was visible in her nose. ‘It’s beautiful. The whole garden is.’

              ‘Did you read the plaque as you came in?’

              ‘Sorry, I didn’t notice it.’

              ‘The garden is called, ‘The lost ones’. It’s a memorial to all those poor souls that are lost before birth.’

              ‘It’s about miscarriages?’ Marisa’s body almost jolted with the realisation.

              ‘Yes, that’s right. But many of the women who I consulted about the exhibits didn’t like the term, so I tried not to use it.’

              ‘Were you responsible for the whole garden?’ Marisa widened her eyes with awe.

              ‘I’m the artist, yes. I specialise mostly in sculpture, but I paint too.’ She put out her tanned hand which was adorned with several elaborate rings. ‘My name is Amy Buckley.’

              ‘I’m Marisa Coleman.’

              ‘I don’t usually hang around my own exhibits, but I live nearby and happened to be walking in the park.’

              Marisa’s gaze was drawn back to the carved tree trunk. ‘You spoke to lots of women who’d experienced losing a baby before you made this?’

              ‘I contacted various agencies online and they put me together with a lovely group of ladies. We’ve all become friends.’ Amy rummaged in the pocket of her oversized dungarees. ‘Here’s my card. If you’d like to join us one day for a coffee you’d be most welcome.’

              Marisa creased her forehead, looking puzzled.

              ‘I could tell by your reaction when I told you what the exhibit was about. Despite the sunglasses you’re hiding behind, the pain was pretty obvious.’

              ‘Was it?’ She sighed. ‘It never occurred to me to talk to other women about my miscarriage and my failure to conceive. In fact, I tend to assume that everyone else finds having babies totally easy.’

              Amy smiled. ‘That’s what we all thought.’

              Marisa tipped her head to one side quizzically. ‘You
too
?’

              ‘I wouldn’t have been inspired to create the garden otherwise. It happened about three years ago – but not to me, to my girlfriend.’ Amy grimaced. ‘So, Cassie and I can add another interesting scenario to the mix.’

              Marisa smiled back. ‘I suppose we don’t tend to imagine there are any other experiences out there but our own.’

              Amy laid a hand on Marisa’s shoulder. ‘It’s genuinely good to share them.’ She dipped her head towards the playground. ‘I expect you dislike walking past those places, too? Most of the women I’ve spoken to do. And they hate themselves for it – who wants to resent a young mum and her adorable kids out having a good time – it’s unnatural, surely?’

              Marisa felt the tears prickling at her eyes. ‘I thought I was the only one who felt that way.’

              ‘Trust me, you’re not, and even if it isn’t
our
group you come along to, make sure it’s another one. It’s really helps, I promise.’

              Marisa blinked, sensing the tears subsiding. ‘I will do that, and even though I’ve never met you before Amy, I trust you, I really do.’

*

The men were quiet over dinner. Marisa actually found herself feeling more positive than she had done in a long time. Her encounter with Amy Buckley had been an eye opener. It turned out she wasn’t on her own after all.

              Anne led the conversation. When their hostess got up to clear away the dishes, Clive took it as his cue to join her in the kitchen, leaving Lee and Marisa alone.

              ‘Anne assumed we’d gone to Kew Gardens today. We didn’t correct her.’

              Marisa narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘Where did you go then?’

              ‘We visited the National Archives at Kew. It’s where they keep all the registers of births, deaths and marriages.’ Lee disappeared into the hallway, bringing back a paper file, full of leaflets and print-outs.

              ‘What were you doing there?’ Marisa experienced a sense of dread.

              ‘I had a long talk with Clive last night, after we got back from the west end. I told him about the boy you keep seeing and how you believe he’s part of your past. I also explained the details of your fostering and adoption, including the strange man we saw in the photograph with your adoptive parents on the day they took you home.’

              ‘Okay.’

              ‘Clive said the best thing we could do was to take a look at the paperwork. The registration of your birth would be at the archives, which are only a short drive away. We knew we couldn’t get access to your adoption details, only you can do that, but you’ve already looked at those, haven’t you?’

              Marisa frowned. ‘Yes, I resolved to find out the names of my birth parents about eight years ago, when Eliot and I decided to start a family. I felt like I needed to know what I might be passing onto a child of ours. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered. They hardly did very much for me.’

              ‘So you contacted the National Adoption Agency? Clive says that is the usual procedure.’

              Marisa was silent for a moment, trying to summon up those past events in her mind. ‘We used an agency, certainly. It was Eliot who organised it. But I think it was private.’

              Lee looked concerned, but not terribly surprised. ‘This agency supplied you with your adoption papers, which listed your birth parents and their ages and professions?’

              ‘That’s correct. My parents were called Frank and Karen Lipscomb. My father was a fisherman and my mother worked part-time as a waitress. They signed my adoption papers on the 10
th
November, 1983, along with Roger and Trudy Lawson. It’s imprinted on my brain.’

              ‘Where is that document now?’

              ‘It’s back at the house in White Bay, probably in Eliot’s study somewhere. I left in something of a hurry, remember?’

              ‘Do you recall any other names on that document? Who else signed it?’

              ‘I believe there was a signature from the head of child services for Southampton but I certainly can’t remember what his name was. I was only interested in who my parents were, nothing else.’

              Lee’s expression was full of concern.

              ‘What on earth’s the matter? What did you find out at Kew?’

              Lee shifted about in his seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. ‘As I said, we weren’t able to discover anything about your adoption. It isn’t allowed without your power of attorney. But we tried to access your birth certificate. Your marriage certificate was there, so we got your maiden name from that.’

              ‘What do you mean,
tried
.’

              Lee reached out his hand and held hers. ‘We attempted every search possible. Clive even asked one of the archivists to help us.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There was no register of the birth of a Marisa Lipscomb in the United Kingdom. Not at any time in the last fifty years.’

              Her mouth dropped open. The words sinking in. ‘What if my mother registered me under
her
surname. She and Frank may never have been actually married.’

              ‘We thought of that, so we looked up the birth registers of every Marisa in the UK. There was only a tiny handful and none of them matched your age at all. Most had only been born in the last fifteen years.’

              She gripped the edge of the table, as if this might stop the world from spinning around her. ‘What does this mean? How can I not have a birth certificate?’ She raised her wide eyes to meet Lee’s. ‘If I wasn’t born Marisa Lipscomb, then who the hell am I?’