sUnwanted Truthst (30 page)

‘No, Dad, not today. As I said, we can't stay long. I visited Mum's grave just a few weeks back. Jenny's parents are buried there too. That's how we came to meet again.'

‘You lived near here then?' he sniffed hard and stared at Jenny.

‘Yes, just beyond the windmill. But that was a long time ago.'

‘A long time ago, yes, I was hot-blooded back then.' He nodded towards the sideboard. ‘Now the fire has gone, but sometimes, when I see a beautiful woman, a flicker returns.' He smiled at Jenny.

‘Dad, that's enough.' Martin finished his coffee with a gulp and stood up.

‘Come and see your old papa again soon, bring Jenny and the children if you can, so I can feel young again?'

‘Of course I will.'

Jenny followed Martin towards the door. She turned, smiled at Ricco and offered her hand. He lifted his arms to embrace her.

‘He's sweet,' Jenny said as they drove back along the crescent.

‘He's alright. Goes on a bit. He was very jealous years ago, his latin temperament I suppose. He didn't like Mum going out. He was always asking where she was going, and who with. Yet he had girlfriends. I didn't realise it then, but I do now. There were some terrible rows. He's forgotten about all that, gone sentimental in his old age. Perhaps when you lose someone, you only remember the good times.'

‘Yes, I think that's true,' Jenny said, remembering her parents. ‘You're not like him, only in your face and eyes.'

‘No, I take after Mum's side of the family, in temperament and height. Anna's more like Dad.'

*

Many times during the following week Jenny thought of Ricco's words, and the two Italian photographs. On Saturday morning she drove into Lewes and approached the library desk. She was about to speak when a man came up behind her. Not wanting to be overheard she walked away and browsed through a guidebook on Rome. After checking that no one was about, she approached the desk again.

‘Just this book, please,' and then added, ‘I know that a few years ago the law changed so that adopted people could trace their relatives, and I was wondering if you have any information about it?'

The woman looked over her glasses. ‘Yes, I think we do, I know that the person has to be over eighteen years of age. Is it for yourself?'

Jenny reddened and nodded. The woman bent down and searched through a box under her desk. She waved a leaflet in front of Jenny. ‘This will tell you the procedure.' Jenny saw the words “Access to Birth Records”. She grabbed the leaflet and left.

*

A raindrop fell on Jenny's cheek as she stood outside the ringing hut.

‘I think we'll call it a day. We're not going to catch many birds in the rain.' Martin looked at the ominous clouds building from the west, and placed an arm around Jenny's shoulders.

‘Let's go and have some lunch in The Golden Galleon,' Jenny said.

‘Good idea. I'll just thank the others, and tell them we're off. Looks like they've already decided they've had enough.' Martin walked across to where three members from the local Ornithological Club had started to fold up the netting.

‘We finished just in time,' Martin said, as heavy rain washed like waves against the windscreen of the Land Rover.

Jenny peered through the wipers as they bumped along the track. ‘Be careful, there's a large flint in the centre of the track.'

‘It's O.K. I've seen it.'

‘It was a good morning wasn't it?' Jenny said.

‘I'm glad you enjoyed it. We've ringed quite a few. I hope it was worth getting up at the crack of dawn for?' Martin turned and smiled at Jenny, his hand stroking her thigh. ‘I thought you seemed a bit quiet on the way over?'

‘Well, I'm never at my best first thing in the morning, and I was thinking about something.'

‘That sounds ominous. Do you still want to go to Rome at half term? We don't have to, you could go and see your aunt in Cyprus instead, I don't mind.'

Jenny remembered when she had written to her aunt to tell her that her marriage was over, and that they weren't able to visit as arranged. To her surprise, Doris had replied sympathetically, saying of course they were disappointed, but that she understood that she wouldn't have taken such a step lightly, and had suggested that she visit on her own, when she was ready.

‘No, it's not about that. I'm really excited about going. It will be lovely, just the two of us. I'll visit Aunt Doris early next year. It's about me.'

Martin frowned.

‘It's nothing for you to worry about. I'll tell you when we get to the pub.'

‘I'm intrigued.'

Martin steered the vehicle over the final ruts in the track, and turned onto the coast road. Ten minutes later the wheels rattled across the wooden bridge across the Cuckmere; the rain falling like pebbles into the river beneath.

‘I don't know about you, but I'm starving.' Martin parked as close to the entrance to the bar as was possible.

‘It's absolutely pouring. We'll have to make a run for it,' Jenny said as she jumped down and held her coat above her head.

Martin placed their drinks on a table by the window, and sat opposite Jenny. ‘I've ordered our food. It shouldn't be long, there's hardly anyone here.' He took a long gulp from his glass. ‘What is it you've been thinking about then?'

‘That I want to find out about my parents – my birth parents.'

Martin looked askance at Jenny. ‘What's brought this on?'

‘I've been thinking about it on and off since the summer I suppose. But it was visiting Ricco the other day that finally decided me.'

‘Dad – what's he got to do with it?'

‘It was the photographs of his family in Italy, and him talking about his roots and how important they are. It's funny, but I never wanted to know anything before. The thought never entered my head when my parents were alive. Perhaps it's only now they're dead, that I can allow myself to think about it without feeling disloyal. It's purely curiosity. I'm not looking to replace Mum and Dad; I don't need another mother or father. I just need to know who I am, and why I was adopted. I can't go to my grave not knowing.'

‘Well I hope you're not going there just yet?' he laughed and covered her hand with his.

‘When Lorna was born, I couldn't stop staring at her, she was the first person I'd ever seen who was related to me. Everyone else sees people like themselves all the time, but I never had. The funny thing is that Lorna looks like Robert. I remember years ago, I was going out with this boy, and when I met his father I was amazed that their voices sounded exactly the same. I've always remembered that.'

‘I think there must be advantages to not knowing who you are, or who you look like. It means you're completely free to be yourself – there can be no family expectations.'

‘Yes, I think you're right about that. I've never felt pressurised to do anything other than what I wanted to do, or to be like anyone else.'

‘I'm glad.' He stroked her hand. ‘Your parents did tell you something though, didn't they? I remember you saying.'

‘Yes – Mum did.'

‘Well, it was just after the war, wasn't it? I'm sure lots of girls had babies they couldn't keep back then.' Martin stared into his half-empty glass. ‘Can you do that anyway? I mean trace them. I thought adoption was final.'

‘It is – but the law changed in 1975 to allow anyone who was adopted to be given information about their parents; only the children, not their birth mothers, or anyone else. I picked up a leaflet about it in the library yesterday.'

‘Well, as long as you're sure that you want to know, and it won't upset you.'

‘It's the right time for me now. I'm happy and settled.' Jenny smiled and squeezed his hand.

Jenny fingered the letter as she spoke into the phone, ‘I've filled in the Access to Birth Records form and I've got a letter to say that I should contact you.'

‘You'll need to make an appointment with Mr Golding for Section 51 counselling. He's the Children's and Adoption Officer, but I'm afraid he's out this afternoon,' said a woman's voice over the phone.

‘Oh, when shall I ring back then, any particular time?'

‘He's usually here tomorrow until midday.'

‘Tomorrow morning, I'll ring back then, thank you.' Jenny replaced the receiver, wondering where she could find an unoccupied room at work. ‘Wednesday,' she said out loud, and remembered the manager's meeting at eleven the following day.

*

Jenny reached under her desk and pulled back the zip on her bag. For the third time that morning she felt the sharp edge of the letter. ‘I need to take an early lunch today Moira, if that's alright with you?'

A grey-haired woman of around fifty raised her eyes from the ledger. ‘That's a good idea; beat the lunchtime rush. There's a sale starting today at Vokins. I saw it on the way in. That's the third this year. That never used to happen; sales were only ever after Christmas. I suppose it's the recession.' She rubbed her lips together as if in anticipation of the bargains to be discovered. Jenny enjoyed working with Moira, but found her nosiness irritating. She was always asking how she and Martin were coping, ‘Especially with the children,' she would always add, reminding Jenny of precisely what she came to work to forget.

‘Yes, that's right, beat the rush,' Jenny said. ‘I'd thought I'd go in about five minutes. I'll finish the bank statements when I come back.'

‘Good, you can tell me what's there then.'

Jenny picked up her bag and left the room. She knocked gently on the door to the office opposite. No reply. She pushed it open slightly. The room was empty. Mrs Janaway had left for the managers' meeting. They always lasted until one o' clock, when trays of pre-ordered egg, cheese and ham sandwiches covered in cling-film would appear; compensation, Jenny thought, for the previous stultifying two hours. Seating herself behind a desk piled with ziggurats of probate files, she pulled the letter from her bag, unfolded it, and dialled.

‘Hello, may I speak to Mr Golding please?' she recognised the girl's voice, ‘It's Mrs Maynard, I phoned yesterday.' Jenny cleared her throat of the lingering remains of a head cold. ‘Hello, Mr Golding, I was told to call today. I've filled in an Access to Birth Records form, my name's Mrs Maynard.' Jenny's heart thumped as she stared at a calendar view of the Highlands – complete with rampant stag in the foreground – that brightened the wall opposite.

‘You know that you need to arrange an appointment?'

‘Yes, I understand that. Your receptionist told me yesterday that I wouldn't be given any information until I came to see you.' She listened intently for any sounds outside the door. ‘It will have to be a day when I'm not at work.' She stared at the heavy black numerals on the calendar… yes, that sounds fine… Tuesday next week at two… No, I don't, but I can find it. I'll see you then, thank you.' Excitement rippled through her as she replaced the receiver. She remembered Aunt Doris's latest letter, when she had mentioned again that she had something important that she wanted to talk to her about. Although her mother had said otherwise, she was sure that her aunt did know about her adoption. Jenny imagined various scenarios; from her mother being an aristocratic girl who having had a passionate affair with a soldier, had been forced to relinquish her baby so as not to disgrace her family; to herself being the unwanted end product of rape. She pushed the last thought from her mind.

*

‘This must be for you. There's a Cypriot stamp on it.' Martin handed Jenny a blue airmail letter.

‘That's quick. I haven't answered her last letter yet. I can't look at it today; can you put it in the letter rack?'

‘You must be nervous?' Martin asked as he bit on a slice of buttered toast.

‘Yes, but it's tinged with excitement. It's like going into labour for the first time. You don't really know what to expect, but you hope it's going to go well, and there's the excitement of seeing your baby at the end of it all.'

‘I wouldn't have put it quite like that.' Martin grabbed his lunchbox from the worktop and gave Jenny a lingering kiss. ‘Well, I'm off. You can tell me all about it when I get home. I'll be thinking about you.' As he turned around he tripped. ‘Toby, get out of the way; you're not coming with me.' The dog whimpered and skulked under the table. ‘Lorna, you better get a move on or you'll miss the bus,' Martin shouted up the stairs on his way to the door.

Jenny peered at her daughter as she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘What have you got on your eyes? Go and take it off. You know you're not allowed mascara at school.'

‘Everyone wears it. Anyway, I can't, I'm late. I'll miss the bus.'

‘Well, you shouldn't have put it on then, should you? Take this and wipe it off on the bus.' Lorna grabbed the sheet of kitchen roll from Jenny's hand.

Jenny sighed,
I bet she doesn't. I'll have to watch her tomorrow, or I'll be getting a letter from the school.
She walked into the lounge, opened the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out her coat and Toby's lead. They left the cottage and turned left, onto the path that led to the footbridge. It was wet underfoot, but too early in the year for the path to be covered with slippery leaves. She bent down and released Toby, who bounded ahead across the bridge. She looked down; the rush hour traffic had reduced to a trickle. The gaps between the struts reminding her nerve endings of the agoraphobia that had never completely vanished. She gripped the handrail as sweat began to ooze from the pores on her forehead. Most days she focused on Toby to mask her anxiety, and managed to cross the bridge. But today, as her heart hammered, she hesitated and panicked. She took a deep breath and let her shoulders relax. The sign of The Swan swayed on the wall of the public house at the end of the bridge, and she thought,
so near, yet so far.
She looked down at the cars speeding below. No – she couldn't do it – not today. ‘Toby,' she shouted. He was already on the other side, but had stopped and was looking back at her, his tail wagging. He sniffed the air, and hurtled back across the bridge. Stepping back onto the path her heartbeat slowed. She bent down and patted Toby's head. ‘Sorry, old boy, we'll go twice round the pond instead.'

*

The brick built house stood on at the northern edge of the council estate. It overlooked a pre-fabricated junior school built at the end of the war. At one time the detached house would have been occupied by a family, but it had been converted in the early seventies into a social services office. Jenny glanced at a plaque on the wall that stated the opening hours and pressed the bell. The door was answered by a ginger-haired woman wearing a calf-length skirt and an even longer cardigan.

‘I'm Mrs Maynard – I've got an appointment with Mr Golding.'

‘If you go through into the waiting room, he won't be long.'

The girl ushered Jenny into a small square room with painted cream walls. She sat down on a padded bench under the window. On the wall opposite was a cork notice board covered with leaflets held on by brightly-coloured pins. Jenny eyes fixed on one,
‘Your
rights if your child is removed.'
An open trunk filled with toys stood under the board.

‘Mrs Maynard.' A tall fair-haired man, of about thirty, stood in the doorway opposite. A moustache covered his upper lip. He walked towards her and gave her hand a weak shake.

‘Do come through. I'm Ross Golding, the Children's Officer for this patch. Please call me Ross. May I call you Jennifer?'

‘Jenny,' she said.

Ross directed her to a melamine chair, pulled a similar one out from behind his desk, and sat a metre away from her.

‘It must seem strange, coming here?'

‘Yes, it does a bit.'

‘If I can just explain the procedure; you've applied for access to your birth records.'

‘Yes.'

‘You know that the law changed in 1975. Before that date, as an adopted person you were not entitled to any information about your original family. Neither would any member of your original family be entitled to any information about you. This was done to protect yourself and your adoptive family. To give everyone involved a new start. Your birth mother knew when she gave her consent to your adoption that it was final, and that she would never know your new name, or where you lived. She could get on with her life knowing, that herself and any new family she might have, wouldn't be disturbed by her past. But, more importantly, your adoptive parents had the reassurance that all links with your original family were severed. But times and attitudes change, and we now think that must have been particularly hard on the birth mother; but any contact has to be initiated by the adult adoptee.'

Jenny nodded, thinking as she looked at him that she had never been attracted to men with fair hair, especially ones with moustaches.

‘Anyway that's why you have to have this meeting. Section 51 counselling we call it; so that you are aware of the implications for everybody involved.' He picked up a thin beige folder from his desk. ‘Are your adoptive parents still alive?'

‘No, they both died two years ago,' Jenny said.

‘Is that when you decided to find out about your birth family? It's a common reason.'

‘Well, I certainly never thought about it while my parents were alive. I didn't want or need to. It seemed disloyal.'

Ross nodded and smiled sympathetically.

‘I'm not looking to replace Mum and Dad, nobody could. I don't even want to meet my birth mother. I just want to know who I am. I'm settled and happy with my life at the moment, so it seems the right time.' Jenny couldn't take her eyes off the beige folder that lay on his lap.

‘I'm glad to hear it. We don't encourage people to act on the information they're given if their lives are not going well for one reason or another. They may invest too much in the person. Some people think that by finding their birth mother, or birth father, it will make everything better for them; it might do. But it will also cause complications, and could make the person feel worse, especially if the birth mother doesn't want to know them. That does happen. It could remind her of a difficult time in her own life. She probably married and had other children, and has never told them, or her husband, so I have to warn people of that.'

‘That's doesn't apply to me. I'm just interested in the information,' Jenny said, wishing that he would hurry up. She didn't need all this spiel.

‘So, how are you feeling at the moment?' he stared at Jenny.

‘I'm fine.'
For heaven's sake
,
this isn't a doctor's consultation, just get on with it.

‘I want to warn you that when people hear their original name and their birth mother's name for the first time, it can be a very emotional moment.' He finally opened the folder and Jenny was surprised to see that it contained just one form. He cleared his throat, ‘I can tell you that the name your birth mother gave you was Georgina Ann, and you were born at 11B, Cannon Place, Brighton.' He paused and looked at Jenny.

Her head spun as she repeated, ‘Georgina.'
That's not me,
she screamed inside.
I don't feel like a Georgina. I don't even like the name.

‘Are you alright Jenny?'

‘Yes.'

‘Your mother stated that she was a housewife, living at the address where you were born.'

That's not what Mum told me
, she thought indignantly.
She said I was born in a hospital and that my mother was a young girl.

Ross continued, ‘Jenny, your mother's name was Helen – Helen Barretti.'

The wall opposite shifted to the side. Had there been an earthquake? Ross's lips were moving but there was no sound. His face, large and blurred around the edge moved towards her own, and back again, several times. She felt herself slip in slow motion to the floor. His lips were still moving but she couldn't hear any words; his face was almost touching hers, so close that she could see each blond hair of his moustache; his blue eyes; and then nothing.

He was squatting beside her, holding a small glass to her lips. His face gradually came into focus; the moustache, and then his eyes and tight curls. ‘Sip this slowly,' he smiled and said softly, ‘I don't often have to produce the office brandy.'

‘It's alright, I can get up now,' Jenny muttered.

‘Take it slowly, I'll help you.' Ross gripped her arm and helped her back onto her chair, He gave her the glass, ‘Just carry on sipping. A few people have burst into tears on hearing their own and their mother's name, but you're the first to faint on me.' He sat back down.

‘Sorry, could you tell me my mother's name again please?'

He reached for the folder. ‘Yes, of course, it was Helen, Helen Barretti.'

‘Not Ellen?' her voice trembled.

‘No, Helen.'

‘Is there a middle name?'

‘There's not one written down here. She was a married woman, because her maiden name ‘Neale' is shown. When a married woman has a child, her husband is usually stated on the certificate as the father, even if he doesn't attend the registration. But there is no name here, so it appears that her husband wasn't your father. That was probably the reason you were adopted.'

She must be some other Barretti
, Jenny thought,
a relative, Brighton's a big place.

Ross stared at her. ‘Are you feeling a bit better now?'