So Many Ways to Begin (30 page)

58
Email messages; printed copies dated March 2000

But in the end, when it happened, it was nothing like that at all. He was sitting in front of a computer screen in Kate's old room, a mug of hot chocolate going cold beside him, the modem flickering as he checked his email, listening to Eleanor brush her teeth in the bathroom, listening to the radio he'd left on by their bed.

He'd found the experience difficult to absorb at first. He'd become so used to the idea of information existing as a physical fact; books, papers, photographs, objects, the parched fragments of ancient civilisations inscribed on to stone and metal, kept secure in controlled environments. The idea that all information would eventually exist in this cacophonous airborne form astonished and alarmed him. It was overwhelming, unknowable, uncategorisable. The first few times, once Kate had finished showing him what to do and left him to it, he did nothing - sat in front of the screen with the browser logged on to a search engine, the cursor blinking impatiently in its small rectangular box. The endless choices that had suddenly reared up before him left him unable to move. He had no idea what he wanted to know.

Except, of course, that he did. He had every idea. There was only one thing he had ever wanted to know.

And he discovered that he wasn't alone. There were thousands of people doing just what he was doing, hundreds of thousands, listing themselves on databases and posting messages in the hope of finding the missing other. I
was born
in 1953, I gave up my daughter in 1942, I saw my son for the
first and last time in 1962.
He scrolled through these lists endlessly, looking for the name he wanted, looking for the date.
Mary Friel, 1945.
He chose a site to register with, paid the joining fee, and added his details to the list.
Adopted son
seeks birth mother. David Carter/Mary Friel /Believed March
1945.
He put
believed
because it seemed to be the standard format, because there were so many stories of dates being mixed up, falsified, misremembered. Because people in his position were no longer sure what to believe.

When it happened, he had more or less given up. It was only habit which drew him back into Kate's old room a few evenings each week, looking for something to do before he went to bed; working his way through the lists, checking his email, searching through slowly and methodically and without any conviction that it was a worthwhile thing to do. He would sit on the folding metal chair in his pyjamas, running his bare feet back and forth across the carpet, squinting at the scrolling names or gazing blankly at his reflection in the darkened window while he waited for the modem to connect.

New Messages (1). Dear David. My mother's name is Mary
Carr but her maiden name was Friel. She was in London during
the war and gave up a baby boy for adoption in 1945. We'll
need to talk more but I think she would be very interested to meet
you.

When he called Eleanor's name, she came into the room with a toothbrush still in her mouth, her dressing gown hanging open around her nightdress. She said something inaudible, and he just pointed at the screen. She looked, and looked closer, toothpaste dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she tried to say it never is, is it? He nodded, not looking at her, not knowing what to say. They both looked at the words on the screen together, silently. She wiped at the spilt toothpaste with her sleeve, and laid her hand on his shoulder. He turned his face against her hand, and closed his eyes.

What are you going to do? she asked. He kissed her hand, and said nothing.

59                              
Ferry tickets; handwritten letter; route
map (from website); all June 2000

I'm going to Donegal, he'd said to his mother, a month ago, and she'd nodded and said right then, okay, okay. I've been in touch with a woman called Mary, he'd said, as gently as it was possible to say such a thing, her maiden name was Mary Friel, and she'd nodded and smiled and said right then, okay, okay, turning her face away from him as she started to cry, and he'd noticed again how much older she was looking, the veins of her neck swollen behind the skin like knotted cords, the backs of her hands arching at the knuckle.

They'd been driving for an hour when he saw the first flag, a worn-looking union flag hanging from a telegraph pole, and he remembered how very many more there had been the last time he was there. He counted another three union flags and a half-dozen tricolours, no more. The sun began to burn more brightly through the mist hanging low over the fields, the land falling away to their left as they climbed higher. Muddy-footed sheep scrambled away from the side of the road as they passed. He asked Eleanor how she was feeling, but she was asleep, or trying to be, and before he'd even noticed how far they'd come they were driving down the long hill overlooking Londonderry, across the bridge and out along the wooded road on the other side.

They were almost twenty miles into Irish territory before he realised they'd crossed the border, that they'd long since passed the spot where once there had been concrete blocks and tall steel fences, razor wire, soldiers with loaded guns and crackling radios; now there was nothing except a gravelled change in the texture of the road. They stopped in a lay-by for sandwiches and coffee and pieces of foil-wrapped cake, looking down over the long narrow bays of the inner coastline, the still grey water glinting in the strengthening light. Eleanor stretched, arching her back and lifting her face, and leant against David's shoulder.

All this sitting down's no good for an old body, she said, rubbing the sides of her legs and bending her knees.

Well, David said, you're not that used to it. Maybe you should go for a run before we go any further, he joked, get the blood moving. She laughed sarcastically and then turned to face him.

Do you think I look old though? she asked. She lifted her hand to her hair; I mean, does this count as grey hair now?

He smiled, and looked away, and said I don't know, maybe you could call it highlights. Distinguished highlights, he said, smiling. She laughed again, swirling the last of the coffee around in the bottom of the plastic mug, stepping away from the car and flicking the dregs on to the ground. She watched the shadows of small clouds slipping across the hillside on the other side of the narrow bay. They both stood still for a moment, listening to the quietness of the morning, not saying anything.

It doesn't seem like all that long since I was here before, he said. She pressed closer against him.

It's more than twenty years, she said. Kate was only three.

I know, he said. A lorry roared and clattered past, and they turned away from the dust and grit thrown up in its wake.

Where does it all go? Eleanor said. I don't feel old enough to have a daughter in her twenties already. He slipped his arm around her waist, pushing her round to face him. And you don't look old enough either, he said, smiling, really.

I do too, she said, pulling away, embarrassed. She looked down at the water again, watching a small red fishing boat struggling out on the tide, and said, you know, when I phone her up I'm still thinking of a ten-year-old Kate answering the phone, I don't know why, I can't help it.

I know, he said, me too. And he found himself thinking about her again, about how much of an adult she'd seemed at the funeral. He wondered what she would say if he told her now why he'd made that first trip to Ireland, the one she could barely remember, and why he was making this second one now. He tried to imagine being able to say such a thing. He wondered if she would understand, or if her indignant words would be familiar: Why didn't you tell me before? How long have you known? How could you not have told me this before? He thought about the photos he had of her in the albums on the back seat, which one of them showed her as someone old enough to have been told: the young woman leaving for university, the almost-teenager starting at big school, the young girl sugar-drunk with birthday-cake excitement, the toddler sitting on her proud grandmother's knee.

They got back into the car and headed for Letterkenny.

I don't think I've written you a letter since you spent that
fortnight in London with Julia, when you were fourteen. Do you
remember? You said you wanted to see all the rooms in the
British Museum instead of just a few. I'm not sure if you
managed it. I can't remember why I wrote to you then, I think
I was sending you some socks, wasn't I? Or I just wanted to
know how you were. Stupid really, but I think I was missing
you, and people didn't use the telephone so much in those days,
did they? It was strange writing to you though, it took me a long
time to think what to say.

But listen to me. I'm not getting to the point at all. There are
some things I've been trying to say to you, and I haven't managed,
so I'm writing them down and I'll give this to Eleanor to give to you
before you go. Does that make me a coward, would you say?

Now I've been sitting here for half an hour, looking at the
wall, and I don't know where to start. We've been over it so
many times, maybe there isn't much point trying to explain
myself again. I did the wrong thing, not telling you. You know
that. But I thought it was the best thing to do and maybe you'll
understand that one day. Maybe you already understand but
you just haven't told me yet.

The truth, David, is that I chose you. I chose to keep you. I
think sometimes you forget that, or maybe you never understood
it in the first place. I could have taken you back to the hospital
and owned up. Or I could have let Julia be your mum instead.
But as soon as I picked you up that first time, with Susan there
next to me and the picture of Albert up on the mantelpiece, you
were part of our family and I knew I couldn't not keep you. I was
there from the very beginning, David. I might not have carried
you in my womb, but I changed your nappies and I fed you, I
was there when you learnt to walk, and to talk, and when you
fell over and cut your knees. I don't have to try very hard to
remember the weight of you on my hip, or the feeling of holding
your hands above your head as you took your first steps, or the
smell of your skin when I tucked you into bed at night. Your first
word was Mum, David, and you said it to me.

But I can understand why you were angry when you found out.
I can understand why you might still be angry now, after all this
time. I think I would be, in your position. But I was never a bad
mother, was I? We looked after you, and fed you, and clothed you,
and tried to do our best for you, didn't we? Sometimes, and I'm
sorry to say it, I don't think you've given us enough credit for that. I
made one mistake, David, one wrong choice, and I don't want you
to punish me for it for the rest of my life.

So that's what I wanted to say. If you're reading this you
should be halfway to Mary's house by now. Be careful, will you?
And say hello to Mary for me. Tell her I'd like to meet her one
day, if that would be possible, if it seems like things are working
out that way.

There's a programme starting that I wanted to watch, so I'll
leave it there. I think I've probably said more than enough
already anyway. But I hope you find what you're looking for
over there, David, and I hope you'll be able to tell me something
about it when you come home. Phone me if you get the chance, if
you want to. And please be careful.

Love, Mum

I don't know what I'm going to say, he whispered. She put a hand on his knee.

You'll think of something, she said. Come on.

They got out of the car and stood at the front door. She looked at him. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and he knocked.