The Adoption (11 page)

Bethan x
.

Next day I stole an envelope, from the drawer in Dad’s desk, and addressed it to Mr Thorston Engel, POW Camp Llanmartin, Newport, Wales. I’d nowhere else to turn and it was worth a try. I didn’t have a stamp either and that’s where I thought I was going to flounder, that the letter would stay tucked under a scrap of carpet in my bedroom. And then the most wonderful thing happened, and it
was
a miracle, a real miracle. Mr Powell the vet came to look at one of the cows that
was
in calf and very sickly. And I was peeping out of the window at his car when I saw his daughter Aeron climbing out from the back seat. Aeron – Aeron my friend! We used to sit together at the same desk in school. It was before the war and it felt like another lifetime, but if I remembered her then there was a good chance that she would remember me. When her father was on his rounds and called in, she’d never been with him before. Don’t you see? It was a sign. The miracle I needed. And then I heard her ask my dad where I was, if she could see me. Oh Lord, I held my breath until I was so light-headed I almost fainted. And I clutched my hands together and my eyes bored straight through the ceiling and the roof of the house and up into the sky where God sits. When my dad said yes, and nodded in the direction of the house, I fell to my knees. God be praised, I thought. God and all your angels be praised. I dashed to the carpet, lifted up a corner, grabbed the letter and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I smoothed out the wrinkles in the pile hurriedly so nobody would suspect.

Next moment and Mam knocked on my door. She checked what I was wearing, a baggy jumper and trousers. You couldn’t see my bump. I didn’t show under all the folds of a green, orange and beige hand knit that she made for Brice. She didn’t meet my eye, just looked at the floor, at the scrap of carpet that only minutes ago was shielding my letter – ironic that.

‘You have a visitor,’ she said stiffly.

‘Oh! And who might that be, Mam?’ I acted all surprised as if I couldn’t imagine who had come calling.

‘Aeron. Aeron Powell, the vet’s girl. You can see her for five minutes in the front room.’ I jumped up but Mam immediately barred the doorway, arms flung wide like a prison guard. ‘You’re not to tell her about … about …’ She broke off and nipped in a breath as if to fortify her. ‘About that,’ she whispered, indicating my belly with a nod.

‘No Mam, of course not,’ I retorted as if I was shocked that she
should
ever suggest such a thing. ‘It’s secret. I understand.’

‘Fine,’ she returned all clipped, her mouth paying the word out like a miser, a lifetime’s ration of disillusionment framing it with her bitter expression. ‘Five minutes mind, no more.’

‘I’ll watch the clock Mam. I promise,’ I vowed solemnly. I considered saying cross my heart and hope to die but thought better of it. If there was a hope that I would see my Thorston again then I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live.

‘I’ll come and fetch you,’ Mam called after me as I clattered downstairs, as if she couldn’t so much as trust me to tell the time.

Aeron was standing by window and she swivelled as I came in. Her long red hair was plaited in one thick plait down her back, and she was wearing a plain Hunter green dress and a grey cardigan. She had grown a lot taller so that she had caught up with me. She used to be much shorter. She smiled shyly.

‘Hello, Bethan. I’ve been wondering how you were. So when Dad said he was coming over I asked if I could come along for the ride.’ She had grown up a lot, so that she seemed more of a woman than a girl, as I expected I did. And yet she had retained an external layer of finicky neatness, which served as an efficient deterrent to untidy emotional advances. ‘Your mam says you’re not well so I can only say hello. She says she’s frightened I could catch something.’ She scratched her shoulder with a delicate finger and took a precautionary step backwards. I glanced at the clock face, and saw that a whole minute had gone. I had to speed up, but I didn’t want her to sense that I was panicking either.

‘Hello, Aeron, how nice to see you,’ I greeted her, crossing to where she stood. She inspected me and the expression on her face was one of disparagement. ‘It’s a bit of a cold, that’s all.’

She looked down her nose at me. I recognised I must look scruffy, my hair loose and tangled, my clothes more suited to a man. But
anyone
kept indoors for five days, pale, pregnant, sick with love and desperate, would have trouble putting on a happy face. Another swift glimpse at the clock. Oh why was the minute hand moving so fast? I lowered my voice. The door was open, but I could hear Mam banging the broom about in the kitchen so I felt safe. ‘Aeron, perhaps could you do me a small favour. We were such great friends at school and I know I can trust you,’ I started, my tone friendly, appealing to our childhood bond. I could feel the envelope in my pocket and I drew it out, trying as hard as I could to maintain a casual air, as if I was going to ask her to perform the most ordinary errand in Wales. ‘I have a letter.’

‘So I see,’ observed Aeron, a touch of asperity in her tone. I presented the back of the envelope to her, preventing her from reading the address.

I had to dive in or I would be too late. My miracle would fade and be trampled into the dust. My letter would be good for nothing but the fire. ‘I want you to post this for me. It’s terribly important.’ Her green eyes lit with interest. She was intrigued, if not the ideal reaction then a close second. ‘But you have to swear that you won’t tell your parents, that you’ll keep this between us, for the sake of our friendship, for the sake of all the hours we shared, in the classroom and in the playground.’ A pause while I racked my brain for something that would tip the balance. ‘The skipping games. The daisy chains. The friendship bracelets we plaited from grass.’

She nodded, her round face sliced into a quick smile of passing fondness. And I wanted to sing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ and hug her. But that would have been unwise in my condition and, I was certain, would cause her to recoil and change her mind. She took the letter from me more curious than hesitant. ‘Who’s it going to?’ she wanted to know, flipping it over and then giving a little gasp.

We were into the last minute, and really it might as well have been
an
hourglass, the trickling sands my lifeblood draining from me. ‘It’s for a friend. Just a friend. Nothing more than that. We want to be pen pals.’ I fidgeted in my jumper and the baby gave a kick, as if my lie about its father had angered the tiny being.

‘German?’ Aeron came back at me in an unflinching slow reptilian blink.

I fingered my neck nervously, and gave a pronounced nod. Then, moistening my lips, I added this targeted reinforcement, ‘He’s a friend. A friend like you and I were.’ I blushed. I could feel the burn on my cheeks and Aeron made a mental note of it as if she were ticking off something in her head.

‘Your parents don’t know.’ She stated this as fact, and not a question.

Again I nodded. ‘But it means nothing. We simply want to write to each other when he gets back to Germany.’ I could hear my mother’s approaching footsteps. ‘Will you do it?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Aeron and I wanted to kiss her.

‘You have to hide the letter.’ I glanced at the door expecting to see my mam coming through it. ‘Quickly,’ I urged.

And Aeron concealed my letter to Thorston, my love letter, in her pocket a second before my mother entered the room.

Chapter 8

Lucilla, 1995

PROMPTED BY MY
adoptive mother’s death, the letter and a sense of the ephemeral that medieval paintings of skulls are apt to evoke, I turn to the Church Adoption Society, the organisation who arranged my adoption. But my attempts to contact them at the address I have are thwarted. They are no longer in residence at Bloomsbury Square. They may have disbanded, or changed their name and their location, or they may have merged with another organisation. Disappointed but not dismayed, (after so many years I expected complications) I pursue another lead – the Salvation Army.

‘A library assistant mentioned that they have a family tracing service,’ I report to Henry. We are strolling through the walled rose gardens in the regal golden excesses of an early November afternoon. The estate is closed to the public for the day and this is when I dearly love to roam the grounds, when they are deserted and peaceful, the house and gardens putting on a private show just for us.

‘Fate,’ Henry deduces simply. ‘Clear as a signpost I’d say.’ The roses are over, of course, and the beds mulched with well-rotted horse manure and all tucked up for their nourishing winter slumber. A warm earthy fragrance is detectable, faint in the chill but undeniably wholesome. We both breathe deep, and Merlin, trotting in front of us, pauses to nose the rich brown fleece appreciatively.

That same evening together we write the letter to the Salvation Army, Henry interjecting if he thinks I’ve missed some vital clue. I explain that I was not handed over to the Pritchards until April 1948, the formal adoption taking place later that year. I suggest that it is entirely possible that Bethan, my birth mother, kept me from my birth until then. I tell them that I am eager to get in touch with her, for her to learn that I now have a family of my own.

I have been very lucky. I am happily married to a good man, Henry. We have two children, Gina and Tim – well, they are adults now. We have lived on the Brightmore Hall Estate outside Dorking, where Henry has been head gardener, for over 20 years
.

‘They won’t be interested in that bit about me,’ Henry insists, leaning over my shoulder. ‘A mention of the children perhaps, but not me.’ I adore the waft of pipe tobacco that lingers about him, a world apart from the sharp acrid smell of cigarettes.

‘Oh yes they will. After all you’re my real mother’s son-in-law. Have you thought of that?’ I counter. The twinkle mirrored in my husband’s eyes, tells me that secretly he’s gratified to have confirmation he is a member of the cast in my unfolding drama. I end on a polite respectful note, whilst at the same stroke trying to stress how much this means to me.

I understand the work pressures that a large organisation such as yours, the Salvation Army, must be under, especially at this festive time of year. But if there is any chance at all of you being able to assist me I would be so grateful
.

The following day, brimming with hope, I mail my letter to: The Salvation Army, Family Tracing Service, 105–109 Judd Street, King’s
Cross
, London WC1H 9TS. On 16 November, I have my reply, as devastating as Dorothy’s was from the Great Oz.

Thank you for your recent enquiry, in which you ask about the possibility of tracing your birth mother. It is noted that you were placed for adoption as a baby. We fully comprehend your motives in pursuing this. Unfortunately we have to advise you that our programme does not include tracking down birth parents in circumstances such as you have outlined. We are therefore sorry to disappoint you. There are few, if any, responsible agencies in the United Kingdom that carry out investigations of this kind, although there are a small number of private agents who may do so. Their fees, of course, can be quite high, depending on the amount of research that is entailed
.

You might also consider the possibility of getting in touch with the Adoption Contact Register. They will explain what facilities are available for adopted people. The address is: Office of Population Censuses and Surveys, The General Register Office, Adoptions Section, Smedly Hydro, Trafalgar Road, Birkdale, Southport PR8 2HH
.

We regret being unable to assist you with your request, and enclose an information sheet explaining some of the difficulties that might be involved in your undertaking
.

Yours sincerely
,

Cedric Lamb

Lieutenant-Colonel

Director – Family Tracing Service

A Christian church and a registered charity – with heart to God and hand to man

It is the afternoon, a Thursday, and a good couple of hours before Henry is due home. Wishing he were with me, bolstering me up, I sink into an armchair utterly deflated. I have a sharp pang under my ribs and am visited by a sudden desire to hug our children close to me, to hold on to them, letting them define me in the tight circle of their small possessive arms. I recall the weight of their heads propped so trustingly against me, and their piping voices clamouring in my ears, chorusing for me to fill myself up with the needs of my precious tinies. That’s what we called them when they were little. The tinies. Our tinies. Mummy, mummy, mummy. But Gina and Tim are no longer tiny. Gina is twenty-eight and Tim is twenty-six and they have long since moved out. And with the loss of their constant demands the malaise of anonymity has returned to torment me.

Now I notice, stapled to the missive and delivering a secondary blow, that there is a standard page of advice to all those foolish enough to embark on a journey to find their origins, to all those determined to prise apart the oyster shell in which their natural parents are cloistered. It is as though I am a child again being scolded for wanting something more, something that is mine and mine alone, some seductive identity that beckons from beyond the claustrophobic confines of the oppressive Finchley house. As if their inability to assist me is not decimating enough, they are trying to put me off the scent, to stop me in my tracks, to derail me. A sudden flare of anger, and I snatch a breath and purse my lips in resolution. I am flesh of
their
flesh and blood of
their
blood. There is no gainsaying this. And yet the conundrum I face is that despite this visceral connection they gave me away. I have to presume that they have lived perfectly contented lives minus their child, without speculating about me the way I speculate about them – every day. Every single day, I ponder where they are, what they are doing, if they have families. I want their hearts to have been pierced by the images of me, moving down the catwalk of my life
at
various ages, modelling a wardrobe of outfits. Their five-year-old daughter on her first day at school, of her at ten having a piano lesson, a young woman of seventeen wearing a dress she hated to a temperance dance, at twenty-two pushing her babies in a pram, at thirty-two having a fireworks party in the garden, at forty-seven finding out that her father had been a German POW.