Trio (39 page)

‘You think I should write back?’

He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘God knows. This was written in nineteen seventy-eight. She’s not heard anything in all this time . . .’

‘So I should feel sorry for her,’ she said resentfully.

‘No. I don’t know.’

‘I feel cornered,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want this. I didn't ask to be born. I didn’t ask to be adopted.’

‘What did the counsellor say?’

‘“Take some time”.’ We haven’t got time though, have we? I still need to know about the medical stuff. There’s nothing here –’ she gestured to a large, manilla envelope – ‘only a basic check they do at the home.’ Her hand sought out her ear. He didn’t miss the movement.

‘I feel so cross, there’s nothing to help with Ella, nothing. So that means if I want any more I need to trace Caroline and then write or get the agency to write and ask specifically. And what if it’s on my father’s side. There’s no indication who he was. It’s a nightmare.’

She looked at him. He looked haggard, his face creasing. She knew what he was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’

‘This counsellor could write for you?’

‘First we’d have to track her down. There’s no address on the letter. And they haven’t any record of where she is. She could have left her address.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be found, a new family and all. She just wanted to leave something for you, wanted you to know.’

‘Wanted forgiving?’

‘That’s a bit harsh. I know I can’t really imagine what it’s like for you but she was sixteen, Theresa, a schoolgirl. She obviously thinks about you . . .’

‘Don’t. You’re right, you don’t know.’

In the days that followed she found herself obsessed by thoughts of Caroline. She read and reread the letter, her feelings swinging from fury at being abandoned to compassion for the woman. She tried to imagine Caroline. She’d be forty-two. Married, two sons. Was she happy? Moments of spite pricked through her thoughts – hope she’s lonely, lost without me, hope she’s regretted it. She despised herself for such petty, cruel impulses. She was tearful too. When Craig was out she allowed herself to indulge in bouts of weeping, wondering where all the tears came from, whether this was a delayed case of postnatal depression. She was exhausted. She had to act.

‘I’m going back for more counselling with Helen next week. I’m all over the place with this. I’m going to start the tracing. Mum will have Ella for me.’

‘What does your mum say about it all?’

‘Haven’t told her yet, there wasn’t a chance really, just said I had a meeting. I don’t want to upset her. She’s on the waiting list now, for the hysterectomy. She’s a lot on her plate. I just need to find the right time.’ She felt awful keeping it from Kay, but she was frightened of what her reaction would be. She couldn’t bear it if Kay was distressed by it. It might be best to wait until she’d had her operation and recovered.

Ella thrived but their pleasure in her was shadowed by the fear that she was ill. That something lurked inside her waiting to rear up and create fresh delirium, fresh traumas.

At the age of eleven months she had a second fit. It was a mild Tuesday morning. Theresa went to the lounge, where Ella was asleep on her playmat, a loose cotton blanket covering her. Theresa heard a strange sound and when she went to investigate she found the child wracked by spasms, her eyes glassy and protruding like marbles, her legs quivering. She dialled 999 and went on to autopilot.

The stay at the hospital was like a rerun.

‘If only we knew why,’ Theresa told the doctor. ‘It’s not knowing what’s wrong that makes it even worse.’

‘I’m going to order a CAT scan – that’s where we take a picture of the brain – and I want to refer you to a neurosurgeon.’

Theresa went dizzy with fear, she laced her fingers tight with the strap of her handbag. A brain tumour? Brain disease. She tried to listen while he talked on about being cautious and keeping things in proportion and all she could imagine was a tiny coffin. It was all she could do to stay in the room.

‘Good grief, Tess!’ Craig said as they walked back to the ward. ‘How do people cope?’

‘How can I go back to work with all this?’ she said to him some days later.

‘What are your options? You can stay here, at home with Ella, and leave your career on hold indefinitely, or go back to the department, get on with your life. The nursery’s in the next block, we can make sure the staff are fully briefed. Your call.’

She frowned.

‘Tess, giving up your work won’t make her better. It’s not about sacrifices. If you want to stay home because you’d rather do that than go back to the university that’s a different issue.’

‘I don’t. I want to go back. There’s a lot going on in the department. I want to be part of that, and they’ll let me do part-time.’

‘There’s your answer. Try it at least, see how it works out.’

‘Yes.’ she nodded, raked her fingers through her hair. She’d had highlights put in to pep up the colour, which she always thought of as boring brown. She still wore it long, often with a stretchy hair band that held it off her face and covered her ears. She put her hands on her hips and stretched her back, which was tight with tension. ‘Craig, about Caroline. There’s days you can go to St Catherines’ House, they help you find marriage certificates and all that. I’m going to go.’

‘Good.’ He nodded.

‘I thought last night . . . what if she’s dead?’

He made a noise.

‘Then we’ll never know, will we?’

‘We might not anyway,’ he pointed out. ‘There may be no epilepsy or anything else in the family.’

‘I keep thinking about it, more and more, what I’ll do if we find her. Things I’d like to ask her, not just health stuff. Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . see her face to face.’

He looked surprised. ‘Really?’

She nodded. ‘Unfinished business.’ She smiled ruefully.

‘Would you do it if Ella was OK? If they found out what was wrong?’

She considered, stroking her hair over her left ear. ‘Yes,’ she said at length, ‘I think so. Not like this, not immediately, I’d want to take it more slowly, but yes, I think I would now. It seems . . . inevitable – if she’s still alive. If she’s willing to meet me.’

‘Jeez, Theresa. Been a hell of a year.’

She blew a breath out. ‘You could say that.’

Kay

How on earth did you break the news to your children? She’d practised the phrases – Daddy and I aren’t getting along very well, we’ve decided to separate – and rehearsed the responses to the inevitable questions – no particular reason, we’ve just drifted apart, it’s mutual.

She had decided not to reveal anything of Adam’s affairs. Oh, there was still a vindictive streak in her that would have relished souring his reputation for them but she didn’t want to hurt them. They didn’t need to know.

It had been two weeks since she’d told Adam she wanted out. And it had taken her months to find the courage to say so. He was putting away the Christmas decorations at the time. All the little bells and baubles. The figures they’d collected over the years. Thirty years. The set of robins that had been the twins’ favourites. She dragged herself away from reminiscence and into the harsh reality of the present.

‘Adam, I want a separation.’

He sat back on his heels, peered at her. He wore glasses now, his hair had turned a steely grey but he was still an attractive man. He always would be.

‘But why?’ He sounded amazed.

‘The children have gone, there’s no need to stay together . . .’

‘But we’re happy.’

She shook her head.

He sighed, started to speak and stopped. Began again. ‘This is about Julie, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Yes, you’re still punishing me . . . after all the . . .’

‘Adam. I’m fifty years old. I’ve raised a family and I’m proud of that, but that part . . . I need something else . . . Not this.’

‘It’s a mid-life crisis . . .’

‘Adam. I’m not going to change my mind.’

‘Jesus, Kay. I thought we’d grow old together.’

‘Don’t,’ she said sharply. She couldn’t bear the sentiment. She had dreamed of that once. No longer.

She felt her lip quivering and fought to contain her emotion. She must be strong.

‘Are you seeing someone?’ His face darkened.

‘Oh, Adam,’ she laughed, tears in her voice. ‘No. We could sell the house – too big for us now.’ She couldn’t imagine leaving the house. It would be as big a wrench as ending her marriage. The babies had grown up here, learnt to walk, climbed the apple tree. She knew all the neighbours, the people in the parade of shops on the main road.

She felt her composure crumbling. ‘We’ll need to sort things out. Not now. But I had to tell you.’ And she went upstairs, away from his consternation and his wounded eyes.

And now in her daughter’s London home, in the kitchen with its Aga and its pretty blue-and-white tiles, pine cupboards; with her grand-daughter in her arms she prepared herself to tell Theresa.

She saw the shock ripple through her daughter’s features, noted the unconscious movement of her hand to her left ear, waited for the questions to tumble and answered them as best she could. She was determined not to join in when Theresa began to cry, clenched her teeth fiercely around the inside of her cheeks and sniffed several times.

They drank tea and talked and Theresa fed and changed Ella and made more tea.

‘Mum,’ she said, ‘there’s something I need to tell you, as well. It’s . . . When Ella had her fits, the doctors wanted to know our medical history.’

Kay nodded. Theresa pulled at her hair, stroking it over her ear again. Why so nervous? Was there bad news about Ella?

‘It’s easy for Craig, but me . . . well . . . I’m trying to trace my birth mother, to see if there’s anything on my side. I’ve got my records, my adoption records. I wanted to tell you. And there’s a letter.’

Oh, God. Kay’s head swam. She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight. She swallowed. Opened them again. Nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, offered a wobbly smile. Thinking all the while, Oh Jesus, I don’t think I can cope with this.

Theresa

‘Is Caroline there, please? Caroline Wainwright.’ She stared across the office wall to her certificates displayed on the wall opposite, the family photos alongside them.

‘She’s not here at the moment. Can I help? This is Paul Wainwright.’

 ‘No . . . erm, no thanks. Thank you.’

Theresa put the phone down. Sat down. Stood up immediately. She made a curious jumping movement across the room, then clasped her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, God!’ she exclaimed.

She picked up the phone again and punched in a number.

‘Craig, I’ve found her, it’s the right place. She wasn’t there but her husband answered. Oh, God!’ She stopped speaking.

‘Good God!’ Craig said.

‘I can write or get Helen to, she said it’s best to use an intermediary at first. Oh, God. I can’t believe it. It’s really her. Somerset . . . No, I’m fine. I’m going to ring Mum, let her know. Yes, see you later.’

She paced some more, her face alert with excitement, shaking her head with disbelief, and then rang her mother.

‘Mum, it’s me. I rang that number, it’s the right one. She wasn’t there though, she’s away, but I spoke to her husband. Pardon? No, not like that, just to ask for her, and he said could he help, he was Paul Wainwright. Probably thought it was a customer or something, it’s a nursery and garden centre.’ Sudden, unexpected emotion robbed her of further speech or coherent thought. She listened to her mother’s congratulations and fought to retain control. She cleared her throat. ‘Talk later,’ she managed. ‘Bye.’

She locked the door to her office and returned to her chair, the tears already splashing down her face. Like a dam bursting, bringing relief and easing the awful pressure in her chest. She let it all go. All those hours in the records office searching, peering over microfiches and registers. The awful fear of not getting there in time.