by Kerena Swan
‘What are you doing, Sarah? Leave those there. I want to look at them again.’
‘I want to look at them again too. I’ll bring them straight back.’
I spread the photographs across my bed. It doesn’t take me long to find all the hospital scenes. I put them into a separate paper wallet then go back downstairs to find the hospital identity bracelet. Where did Mum put it? I reach out to shake her shoulder and ask her, then change my mind. She’ll worry I’m up to something and she probably won’t tell me where it is. I’ll look for it instead. It must be here somewhere.
It’s not in the lounge so I go back upstairs. Mum’s room is a mess of discarded clothes, sour bed sheets and leaking toiletries. There’s no sign of the bracelet on the cluttered surfaces and the wardrobe has no shelves. I turn my attention to the chest of drawers and rummage through old pairs of tights, socks and T-shirts. My nose tingles with the smell of unwashed feet and stale talcum powder. She’s disgusting, and I’m ashamed to be associated with her.
I find nothing.
Mum must have put the bracelet into a box or container for safe-keeping. I sweep aside a jumper and dirty underwear then kneel to look under the bed. It’s as cluttered as I expected and I sigh as I pull out armfuls of clothes, a broken hairdryer and dog-eared magazines. When my hand touches a cardboard box, my hopes rise. On closer inspection I can see it’s decorated in a montage of dogs and cats, and covered in a thick layer of disturbed dust. I remove the lid and peer inside.
The contents surprise me. There are old birthday cards I made for her as a child, a tiny hand-knitted cardigan, a small press full of dried flowers, old tickets and a bundle of letters tied together with a length of yellow ribbon. This must be Mum’s memory box. I shift items around gently, looking for the bracelet and find it. Phew. I put it carefully to one side and am about to put the box back when I find myself drawn to the letters.
They might be love letters from Colin Evans. They might reveal whether Mum did have an affair. Not that it matters now. But something about the letters is niggling at me. I don’t know much about handwriting but the script on the envelope seems too delicate and feminine to be a man’s. Too many loops and flourishes.
I untie the ribbon. There are four letters in all. I turn one over, then freeze in disbelief. The sender’s address on the back is The Old Hay Barn, Bow Brickhill. My mind can’t take this in. Was Mum writing to Fiona? Did they both know about the swap? I’ve spent days, no weeks, tracking down my real family and Mum knew where they were the whole time. Keeping the letters out, I place the lid on the box and thrust it under the bed. I pick up the bracelet and letters, and leave the room.
Back in my bedroom I grab handfuls of photographs from my bed and chuck them haphazardly back in the box then sit on the bed and lean against the headboard to read the first letter.
The paper is thick and creamy, the ink real and a little faded. I sniff it and detect a faint lingering scent of roses. I’m almost afraid to unfold it. I hold my breath and open it.
15th June 2016
Dear Mrs. Butcher,
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. You may not remember me but we met at the maternity unit when our daughters were born. I was sorry we lost touch at the time but no doubt both our lives were hectic with the small babies.
My reason for writing is that I have recently discovered your whereabouts on the electoral roll and wondered if you would like to meet up for a coffee and a chat?
It would be so lovely to see you again and hear all about your daughter. You called her Sarah, didn’t you? You can reach me on the number below or write to me at the address on the back of the envelope.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Fiona Winterbourne
I open the next letter straight away.
27th July 2016
Dear Mrs. Butcher,
I apologise for the intrusion, especially if you would prefer not to hear from me but I’m not sure if my last letter reached you safely. I know post sometimes goes astray, so I hand-delivered this one.
In my first letter I explained that we met in the maternity unit when our daughters were born. I hope you remember me as well as I remember you. In my letter I asked if you’d like to meet up for a coffee and a chat.
Could you please call me on the number below? There is something of great importance I need to discuss with you. I will explain when I see you.
Kind regards,
Fiona Winterbourne
Something of great importance? It has to be the swap because what else could make Fiona look Mum up on the electoral roll and write to her persistently, even going to the trouble of delivering one of the letters by hand? I open the next letter with trembling fingers.
Chapter 45
March | DI Paton
The stockroom at the rear of the shop smelled of cardboard, dust and sweat. Boxes of food items were stacked in huge metal cages ready to be wheeled onto the shop floor to re-stock the shelves. Paton sat on a hard plastic chair and watched the store manager, seated at a cluttered desk as he clicked through files on his computer.
‘The human resources department do all the clearances for staff but I see the original documents and verify them,’ he said. ‘Trina Hodges presented her driving license and a letter from her landlord proving her new address but there were issues with her National Insurance number so her employment didn’t go ahead.’ The manager’s speech was fast and his movements were jerky. He glanced at Paton then hurriedly looked away again.
He was nervous.
‘What about unofficially?’ Paton asked, and saw from the manager’s face that he’d circumvented procedures and employed Trina on an informal basis.
Paton could guess how he paid her but stayed silent. No doubt the tills were lighter than they should have been. He’d let the man squirm a bit. Anxious, guilty people revealed more when they got flustered. Paton glanced at the expanding patches of sweat under the man’s arms and contained a satisfied smile. Another criminal about to be brought to justice.
‘I felt sorry for her,’ the manager said eventually. ‘She was desperate for a job and promised to work hard so I agreed to a temporary cash arrangement until she sorted out her National Insurance number. She was clearly not an illegal immigrant.’
‘How did you manage to pay her in cash?’ Paton asked, enjoying the flush that crept up the man’s cheeks.
‘I… Er… I took it out of the till.’
‘Wouldn’t that mess up the recording of takings and stock?’
‘Not everything was entered into the till. Not everyone wants a receipt these days.’ The man looked miserably at the floor.
‘So, you pocket the takings that don’t go through the till. But I bet you don’t spend a lot of time on the tills yourself so other staff must have been in on this too,’ Paton said. ‘Do you share it out at the end of the day?’
‘Please.’ The man looked pleadingly into Paton’s eyes. ‘Do you have to report this? I’ve a girlfriend and new baby to support. I can’t afford to lose this job.’
‘I haven’t got a choice, lad. You’ve committed a crime and I’d be committing one too if I didn’t report it.’
The man rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Will I go to prison?’
‘I don’t know. It depends on the extent of your deception and what charges your employer raises against you.’
Paton stood and moved to the door. He almost felt sorry for the man but his greater emotion right now was disappointment at the trail of Trina going cold again.
‘Before I go, please print me a copy of Trina’s driving licence. I’d like to check it out further.’ Paton suspected it was a fake but needed to be certain. He called the local station to report the manager then left the premises.
Paton returned to the Bramwell café where the friendly waitress served him with a cappuccino and another vanilla slice. He logged onto his laptop and checked HOLMES for progress on the investigation then logg
ed the driving licence number to be checked. He saw that Cheryl had visited the other Fiesta owners and drawn a blank. Both had valid reasons for local journeys and witnesses to verify them.
Paton finished his cake and packed away his laptop. His optimism wasn’t completely crushed. He still had to visit the Forensics team to see what they’d discovered from the contents of the skip.
Chapter 46
March | Sarah
The edge of the headboard digs into the back of my neck but I barely notice it. I’m transfixed by the letter in my hand and read it for the second time.
12th September 2016
Dear Rosemary,
This is not an easy letter to write as it is clear you do not wish to make contact with me. As you will know from the notes I pushed through your letterbox I have called at your house several times at different times of the day and evening but have found you either out or unwilling to answer the door. This may be because you know why I wish to see you. If not, I apologise for what may come as a shock to you. I have not wanted to put this in a letter but now feel I haven’t a choice.
Do you recall the nervous student in the maternity unit? I can’t imagine how she got through the selection process because she was totally incompetent. Both of our babies had jaundice and it is my belief that this student mixed them up after one of the fluorescent lamp treatment sessions. I know she removed your baby’s identity bracelet in the mistaken belief that the baby needed to be completely naked in order to benefit from the treatment. There was quite a commotion when the mistake was discovered, which I s why I remember it. My baby was having treatment at the same time but returned to me with her bracelet still in place – or so I thought. Now I wonder if the bracelets of both babies were removed and the babies mixed up when new bracelets were put on.
My baby had no particular marks such as birthmarks and neither did the child who was given back to me. I did think she looked a little different and said so to a nurse but she simply smiled and told me that was because the treatment was working and wasn’t it wonderful? The baby behaved a little differently too – she was more fractious – but I put that down to her feeling stronger and thought no more of it.
As time passed it became apparent that Jenna bore little resemblance to the rest of us, and especially her sister. She’s taller, thinner, and darker haired with brown eyes and facial features that she shares with none of the rest of the family. People used to comment that they’d never have guessed that Jenna and Lucy were sisters. I always said she must take after some relative we’d all forgotten – a great, great grandmother, perhaps. One person even asked me if I was sure there hadn’t been a mix-up at the hospital. They were joking and I laughed, but inside… Well, I wondered a little. Not that I didn’t love Jenna.
Please be assured that Jenna is a wonderful girl and I love her every bit as much as I love Lucy. It was when Lucy suggested researching the family tree through an ancestry website which included DNA testing that I felt I had to confront my own doubts about whether Jenna really was our birth daughter. I realised I was frightened. If the test proved my suspicions right, then Jenna’s world – indeed all of our worlds – could be knocked completely out of orbit. It would also mean that we have a birth daughter who’s a stranger to us.
I managed to distract Lucy from her ancestry quest (though who knows when her curiosity will arise again?), but took it upon myself to undertake DNA tests of my husband, Jenna and me so I’d know the truth but be able to keep it to myself until I decided what to do about it. I sent fingernail clippings in secret and when the test came back I saw that my suspicions were well-founded because Jenna is not our biological daughter. I can only assume that she’s yours which means that the child you’ve brought up is ours.
I’m not looking to disrupt our lives and those of our children. As I said, Jenna is a wonderful girl whom we love dearly, and I hope that our child – your Sarah – has given you similar joy. I promise not to approach Sarah directly but I feel a need to see her, even from a distance, just to reassure myself that she is well and happy. Perhaps you feel a similar need to see Jenna.
I realise this must come as a shock to you, so I will give you time to digest this information before I approach you again to discuss the best way forward.
Yours truly,
Fiona Winterbourne
My heart sings with joy. My real mother wants me. She’s tried to find me! But the letter was written over three years ago. What happened in the intervening years? I open the next letter with great anticipation. Will this be a recent one?
A small flutter of disillusionment beats in my chest when I realise this letter was written four months after the other one. Did Fiona, my real mother, give up trying to find me? I scan the page quickly then take my time as I read it again.
20th January 2017
Dear Rosemary,
I am deeply saddened by your lack of response to my last letter but can only assume that you are too afraid to tell Sarah about the switch at birth for fear of losing her. I promise I won’t try to come between you. I just need to see her. Please. I think of little else and this is eating away at me.
I have been to your neighbourhood several times and driven up and down your street in the hope of catching a glimpse of Sarah. I have tried to find out more about her too, though I’ve stopped short of speaking to your neighbours. So far I’ve seen and found nothing. It occurred to me that the very worst might have happened and she might not have lived for long, but I have checked death records and thankfully she is not recorded there. Please reassure me that she is alive and well. I want to tell my husband about this but he has a weak heart and I don’t want to distress him if it is bad news.
Please don’t take this as criticism or as meaning that I want to ‘buy’ Sarah but, having seen where you live, I suspect that, with the best will in the world, you haven’t been able to provide for Sarah the way we’ve been able to provide for Jenna. We’ve fortunately been successful in our careers and are financially comfortable so I would like to even things up a little by providing some financial support for Sarah. Given that there is no firm proof yet that she is my daughter I have amended my will to state that I wish to divide my wealth and assets amongst my children. I see this as a way to support all three of them without naming them. Lucy as my first-born, Jenna as the child I have loved and raised as my own, and Sarah if a DNA test proves she is our biological daughter. My financial advisor has said this is acceptable and a court of law would likely award funds to all three young women. I have written separately to my solicitor to explain my wishes.
I beg you to get in touch to let me know Sarah is well. For Sarah’s sake please let me do what is right for her.
Yours sincerely,
Fiona Winterbourne
The joy I felt a moment ago is being replaced by a different emotion. My birth mother wanted to find me but my adoptive mother – my selfish, dishonest, cruel adoptive mother – didn’t want me found. Heat builds in my chest and burns my eyeballs. I’m trapped in a forest fire of hatred and loathing, and I stumble blindly to the door. I can’t think coherently. I just need to get downstairs to confront Rosemary. I miss a stair near the bottom and stumble down the last couple of steps.
‘You absolute bitch! You knew.’ My mouth contorts with rage and on impulse I lean forward to spit in Rosemary’s face. The saliva slides down her cheek and she opens her eyes wide in shock.
‘Sarah?’ She struggles to sit up but I shove her back down again.
‘You knew about the swap at the hospital. You know you’re not my real mother. How could you do this?’
‘You’re mistaken, Sarah, I—’
‘I’ve read the letters, Rosemary.’ The venom I feel drips off her name. ‘You’ve watched me struggle all this time and you’ve kept my real mother and father from me. Parents who can love me, provide for me and make me happy. Not a weak, spineless fucking excuse for a human like you. You never protected me from John Butcher. You never stuck up for me. You den
ied me happiness twice over.’
I hold up my fingers and count them off to emphasise my point. ‘One – by not speaking up at the time of the swap, and two – by not replying to these letters.’ I wave them in her face and she recoils in horror.
‘I didn’t want to lose you, Sarah. You’re all I have in this world. If I’d let that woman into your life, you’d have rejected me. I couldn’t compete with what she could offer you. I love you, Sarah. I raised you as my own daughter. You are my daughter.’
‘Not anymore.’ I reach forward to wrap my hands around her throat then pull back. ‘Ugh! I can’t even bear to touch you.’
I rush to the front door, grab my bag and keys, and slam it behind me.
For an hour I drive up and down the dark A5 dual carriageway, trying to calm myself down and working out what to do next. My real mother must have been looking for me when I was in Manchester living under the name Trina Hodges. No wonder she couldn’t find me. And what about my real father? He has a weak heart. Is he well now? Is he still alive? What if I never get to meet him?