On the Far Side, There's a Boy

by Coston, Paula

  Claire looked slapped and turned her back on her. ‘Fine. See you on Monday.’

  Martine called out, ‘What is it?’

  Claire faced her again. ‘You have to have a plan, don’t you? You can never just go with the flow.’

  Martine apologised, regaining balance. ‘You go on the march. I can’t. Today, Tate’s my true flow.’

  At college the next Monday Claire would apologise, shift to another grievance. ‘I could have helped you. Come with you. Outside work, you never want help.’

  But for now the sunshine warmed Martine, striding off for Vauxhall Bridge. She passed the gas holders, the synthetic ocean blue of the Surrey Tavern and the brick wall round the Oval. For once she was feeling of the crowds without needing to be with them.

  Below the bridge the Thames glittered, and Martine experienced a clear lyrical vision of her pristine page origamied into a boat, cruising towards this adoption. She thought, Hope hasn’t just sailed: I’ve probably always been moving towards a special connection with someone. It’s just that recently, like activating a sluice gate, a tide has been released, bearing me along.

  The wind caught the InterRelate letter flapping in the mouth of her bag. She pushed it down.

  At Millbank, she mounted the steps to the Tate Gallery. She’d imagined filming Tate’s name as a light-touch hint that London called him, but there was no carved building name near the portico. Uterine contractions grabbed her and twisted hard. She ran inside, letting blood pour into the lavatory, changing tampons just in time.

  When she re-emerged, the embankments towards Westminster and Lambeth Bridge were fluid with a mass of dots of protest. She thought, Filming the crowds might alarm him. At last she found Tate the name on a banner at the entrance, zooming in. Balancing the camera on a step, she ran down to the pavement so that she could film herself. A snap-happy tourist moved her glowering little boy around herself like a chess piece. Martine talked to Tate and smiled.

  A few streets away was Ali and Conrad’s flat. Ali opened the door, beaming to hear of her progress with the adoption. Children were babbling inside.

  ‘Conrad’s on the demo, which leaves me holding the little’un. Got a few friends round doing likewise,’ Ali said. As Martine stepped over the threshold she added, ‘Jonas is here.’

  Martine hadn’t known that Jonas saw her friends without her. He was with a circle of mothers at the low living room table, feeding cake icing to Gretel on his knee. He and the others were chatting and laughing easily, with their mouths full. Children shunted toys on the carpet. Invisible tracer seemed to course between the parent-child pairings.

  Martine crept up on Jonas. ‘Don’t look now.’

  He murmured, ‘Woah! Surprise!’ his face clouding.

  Astrid and Pippi were on the protest; Martine explained why she was there.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said into Gretel’s hair.

  Talk was of Thatcher and the tax, children’s development and food fads.

  ‘Soon I could be in this club,’ Martine said, feeling an inner leap.

  Jonas laid an arm across Gretel. ‘You’d want that?’

  Gretel was squirming for release. The ceiling devil had long since gone, but Martine filmed the painted cupid still reaching a chubby arm for the cornice. The adults nattered with mouths full of crisps and chocolate, and she recorded a commentary for Tate while processing other thoughts. Jonas is put out: I’ve invaded what he sees as his domain.

  Ali was sitting across from her with a woman and teenage girl, their hands locked together with what seemed to Martine an unnatural air of dependency. She got up to go, maybe to walk downriver, and the girl gave a squawk, and Ali raced towards her with a flannel and a blush.

  The mother said, ‘Love, don’t worry but I think you might be having a…’, and the daughter wrinkled her nose, and Ali asked, ‘Are you OK? Maybe we need to get you to the…’, and someone mumbled, ‘Should I call an ambulance?’, and Jonas dropped his head. Then Martine recognised the warm, drenched sensation and saw the red stain on the cushion she’d been sitting on.

  Emotions can stream along in parallel. In Trafalgar Square the mood of the march was festive-angry, Martine would find out later. A rabble of marchers was kicking three bells out of Bernard, dressed as a comedy Thatcher. Police horses reared, protesters fell; scaffolding poles hurtled through windows and flames through portakabins and the high-ceilinged rooms of the South African Embassy; exultation rippled through two hundred thousand people. And Martine’s mood took two channels, each running straight on. There was an undertow of panic about something – the maternal life nearly on her, the letter in her bag – yet at the same time, with the blood loss, a kind of breaking of waters, a vast sense of release, of the onset of everything she’d wanted.

  Ali trailed her to the toilet scrubbing at the defaced lemons and oranges with Martine declaiming stupidly, ‘Out, out, damned spot!’, and once she was seated and alone, the blood came gushing out.

  She re-read the official letter.

  ‘28 March 1990

  Dear Miss Haslett

  Sri Lanka

  The political situation in Sri Lanka has been volatile for many years and NGO work there has been under review for some time. The decision has been taken that our Sri Lankan operations and therefore, of course, communication with your sponsored child must cease. You will understand that, for reasons of confidentiality and security, we are unable to supply the family’s contact details.

  ‘We thank you for your support to date and hope this will continue. I attach a list of countries where we are currently active, and look forward to your decision on a new link with a child.

  ‘Many thanks again for your help thus far

  Gavin Godfell

  Public Relations Manager, InterRelate International, London’

  Martine’s hopes and plans still flowed, but Mohan had dropped from her, a shard off the edge of a cliff. She couldn’t swallow. There was a dam of giant pebbles in her throat.

  22 Anupama

  Thursday 14 February 2013

  ‘We have said that if you live in Colombo to study, we can find a way to manage,’ pleads Asiri, referring not just to money but to separation. ‘But England…’

  ‘You have heard me talk of Thurindu?’ Anupama asks. ‘The cousin I did not know we had.’ She asides to the moon, ‘You were there sometimes when that vain brat came to the house, glancing with disdain at my figure. You shone on me as if you were trying to calm me when he gave the little man sweets and lent him a cricket bat and talked to me of relationships with his ingratiating smile. His mother was most forceful. He was a bullet I dodged. He, and since, the bullet of having children. I have often thanked the Buddha.’

  ‘My rival,’ Asiri jokes in a leaden tone.

  ‘He is married now. Because his wife has family there, they live somewhat near London.’

  Asiri ransacks the England idea for obstacles. ‘The money it would take! And it must be hard to get a visa.’

  ‘Not a student visa, as long as I absolutely fulfil the criteria. And…’ Anupama hesitates. ‘I have already written to them. His wife is homesick for Sri Lanka. They are willing to let me stay. If I have to, I could say on the visa form, with a little truthfulness, that my cousin’s wife is sick.’

  Asiri’s face is a helpless blank. Anupama thinks, A dream becomes a need when it is capable of fulfilment. Till now, I have had no dreams like that.

  ‘Handanandāmāmā,’ she questions silently, ‘is it so wrong to follow my needs? To replace Asiri’s with my own?’

  ‘Have I lost you?’ whispers Asiri.

  She imagines the lively, thinking world of Miss Martine. She already knows how to answer him and the moon. Her will must supersede Asiri’s: he’s had his wishes for long enough.

  She puts her lips to the rigid neck of her husband. ‘My dearest,’ she whispers, ‘if I stay here, I hope no. But to be perfectly honest, if I go to London, possibly yes.’

  * * *


  Knockabout

  1990–1993

  At a few keystrokes Mohan was gone.

  Some hurts come and go but some, like bootprints on the moon, impress people for all time. The blue manila wallet long unopened in the carton in Martine’s wardrobe is like that, the dust of loss even now drifting across it. From 1990, over the next few years, it came to contain official letters: from Social Services offices, from children’s homes, the press. Messages from friends too, and her mother.

  ‘Dear Miss Haslett

  Sponsored child 88 6502

  I am sorry, but as previously stated our policies prevent us from giving you any contact information for the Sri Lankan family, or conveying a message.

  ‘We note you have not yet opted for another country for child sponsorship, and look forward to your choice.

  ‘Regards

  Gavin Godfell

  Public Relations Manager, InterRelate International, London’

  ‘18th May 1990

  Dear Martine

  Possible adoption of Tate

  Our ref: WW 33

  Yes, I had received your letter. As she will have explained to you, you should not communicate with Fiona or me but through Rebecca Ng’ang’a, your Adoption Officer. I can assure you though that there are always sound reasons for delays.

  ‘Yours sincerely

  Nikki Leach

  Placement Manager

  Shoehorn House, Norwich’

  ‘27 August 1990

  Dear Martine

  Tate (Norwich), our reference: PA/NHA/14/45

  Although we’ve discussed the situation in person, my manager has asked me to write to you. Bureaucrats, eh!

  ‘Please make sure your phone calls and letters always come to me. Of course it’s disappointing about Tate, but agencies up and down the land would be overwhelmed with correspondence if every prospective adopter rang and wrote to them when things didn’t pan out.

  ‘I look forward to working with you towards a more successful outcome.

  ‘Yours sincerely as ever

  Rebecca Ng’ang’a

  Adoption Officer’

  Enclosure [handwritten]

  ‘Martine,

  I shouldn’t be doing this, so keep this to yourself.

  ‘I feel frustrated too – but my job is to help you overcome such feelings. We approved you as a single adopter – so why, you’re asking, does Shoehorn Homes seem to operate to different standards, as though they value a couple over someone single? A couple who haven’t even been found yet. From all the information I have it wasn’t a simple ‘couple vs. single’ decision. It was also about your style of parenting compared with another, given Tate’s needs. In other words, you must trust me to trust the agency for you – if you have his best interests at heart.

  ‘If you’re now thinking, “Well she would say that – they’re all in this together,” please think again. Having helped you through the approval stages, I’m now your advocate (although I must also weigh the needs of any child). You can rely on me being honest – or as honest as I can be.

  ‘Your distress for Tate – the agency showing Tate your video as if it was more or less a done deal – I’ve written to them asking why, if they weren’t sure about you even then, they did that. If I get a reply, I’ll let you know.

  ‘As for the delays, I’d say I’m sorry – except that I can’t do anything to shorten them. I definitely shouldn’t be mentioning this, but you’ve been so lucky to keep me as your social worker without disruption. This job takes a heavy toll in staff changes, unfilled jobs and sickness. And that’s why crucial meetings are often postponed etc. too – not helped by the inevitable knots and snares of red tape!

  ‘I know you can get over this.

  ‘Fond wishes

  Rebecca’

  ‘2 October 1990

  Dear Martine

  Gary (Liverpool), our reference: LSS/71/15

  Rebecca is having some time off work so I’m just writing to let you know that the meeting about you and Gary has unfortunatly [sic] been postponed until Thursday 22 November. Well [sic] be in touch as soon as we con [sic] after that.

  ‘We do appollogise [sic] for the wait.

  ‘Sincerely

  Camilla Nixon

  Manager, Adoption and Fostering’

  ‘19 December 1990

  Dear Martine

  Gary (Liverpool), our reference: LSS/71/19

  Writing formally with the outcome of our meeting on Gary as explained on the phone last week. His foster carers have discoverd [sic] a medical problem that may or, may not, be serious. Untill [sic] it is dignosed [sic] Liverpool feel they can’t proseed [sic] with any possible adoption and have withdrawn him from there [sic] pool for the forseable [sic] future. This is a shame but Im [sic] sure is for the best to avoid rising [sic] false hopes. Please continue looking through Take Me In and we will help you all we can.

  ‘Good news though we have apointed [sic] a new Adoption and Fostering Officer. His name is Francis Motti, he will be in touch very soon.

  ‘Sincerely

  Camilla Nixon

  Manager, Adoption and Fostering’

  ‘29th January 1991

  Dear Martine

  I may be a stressed-out red-tape merchant but of course I remember you.

  ‘Just to say I was really really sorry not to say goodbye – and I still think of you. Use the phone number above (home, but that’s fine) if you need to talk.

  ‘I believe it will all come right for you. What they disliked us telling you is how different every child agencies’ standards and procedures are, how long it all takes – and how many disappointments there’ll be along the way (please eat this when you’ve read it!).

  ‘I think I’m on the road to recovery at last – or will be if I change to a more stress-free direction. Desert island surveying? Maybe a project with teenagers somewhere? All ideas welcome.

  ‘Keep on keeping on.

  Love Rebecca’

  ‘20 February 1991

  Dear Miss Haslett

  Stuart (Exeter), our reference: PPHE/73/3

  I could not find you on the telephone the last few days.

  ‘It is the greatest of pleasure that the meetings about you and Stuart have a very positive feeling to them. Now it would be helping the local Social Services if they can see an album of your photos of you and your family and friends.

  ‘I can advise you on how to put this up if you like. I will telephone you to talk about it.

  ‘All my very good wishes

  Francis (Motti of course!)

  Adoption and Fostering Officer’

  ‘5 March 1991

  Dear Martine

  Stuart (Exeter), our reference: PPHE/73/4

  I am very sorry I was not here when you were telephoning me. I have a busy job, you know!

  ‘I am very sorry I did not know we were keeping an album of yours for all of these times. Please be sure that we have not lost this precious thing. I will put it into the post to Exeter as they are asking us for this straight away.

  ‘All my very good wishes

  Francis (Motti)

  Adoption and Fostering Officer’

  ‘11 April 1991

  Dear Martine

  Stuart (Exeter), our reference: PPHE/73/7

  It is a very sad outcome I am very sorry to say. Although Stuart was often having accidents you were content about, it will be a very different thing since the fire in the Home. I am sure you can see this.

  ‘I think a conversation with you would be a very good idea and I would see you very soon. I have new ideas to give to you about the kind of child and so on.

  ‘I will find you on the telephone as soon as possible.

  ‘Once more very sorry, with all very good wishes

  Francis (Motti)

  Adoption and Fostering Officer’

  ‘13th May 1991

  Hi hon.

  ‘How are you after the Thames booze cruise?!!! – I was wrecked. Do hope it did
you some good – it seemed to. Didn’t we tear off the world a strip!! – and also I think a man on some bridge and a hen party from Essex – ABOUT A LOST BOY CALLED STUART AND THE CRAP IN THE SYSTEM AND A CERTAIN PERSON’S EX-BOSSES??? (Although – to be fair – Camilla does her best, poor love.)

  ‘This Francis bloke sounds bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but make sure he listens to you and doesn’t impose things on you – that’s the key. As I said, if you don’t want a girl – or you’re a bit unsure – don’t even go there. Really – trust your instincts.

  ‘Thinking of you loads.

  Love Rebecca X

  ‘P.S. Also, stop thinking adoption for one minute of the day and go to your doc again. You can’t carry on like that. Apart from the pain and blood, the loss of energy – I’d have slit my wrists by now. (Actually I wouldn’t – because a) that would be even more pain and blood, and b) it’s not what any self-respecting ex-Adoption Officer would ever ever advise.) Go to the doc!

  Love Bex (again) X’

  ‘18th June 1991

  Martine

  About our last phone call. Row, I suppose we have to admit.

  ‘I’ve been trying to sleep, but something’s come back to me. Before Uncle Simon died and Auntie Louise moved to Scotland and became such a hermit, when they lived in Birmingham, they looked after the little boy of a neighbour sometimes who had what we’d probably call now post-natal depression.

  ‘Whenever you saw him at Auntie Louise’s you’d handle him in a careless way, almost. (You were never interested in dolls or things like that, that I remember.) But one time, you must have been about six, the neighbour suddenly appeared at Auntie Louise’s. She wanted him back unexpectedly. And you screamed and held him and wouldn’t let him go and made such a fuss that I was embarrassed. I wonder now if some protective instinct had alerted you that her maternal drive wasn’t quite reliable or something.

  ‘You’ll think I’m being old-fashioned. I can’t say this very well. I’m sorry, but I’ve always thought you’d be better off with a girl. I may not have said before, but I won’t unsay it now. What I meant was I suppose I was trying to say how different from mother and boy the mother-girl bond is. I don’t know how much science lies behind it but most girls seem partly mothers-in-waiting, primed to feed and nurture, as if they share some collective memory of mothering. And I don’t think it’s just their physical makeup. Surely almost any girl you adopted would share that with you already – just as you have some of me, and I have some of you.