The English American

by Alison Larkin

  I put down the telephone. I’m shaking, and my heart feels tight.

  The mother I have dreamed of and wondered about all my life is alive, and real, and—oh, best of all—“open to contact”!

  The excitement is accompanied by a thud of guilt. How can I do this to Mum and Dad? The maroon and cream bedspread that Mum made to go with the curtains reproaches me from the floor.

  I look around my room. My orangutan washing bag is still stuffed full of dirty laundry. The Oriental carpet I brought back from Kashmir is still desperately in need of a clean. The Abbey is still standing in the shadows under the moon, which is still full. Everything looks the same and yet it is not the same.

  Minutes ago my mother was a ghostly figure, asleep in the back of my mind.

  Now she has become real.

  I sit down and write the letter Judy asked for. Miraculously I find an envelope, stick far too many stamps on it—better safe than sorry—and run down the end of the road to post it before I can change my mind.

  The next morning, I clamber into Typhoo—my beaten-up old Renault 5, named after my favorite tea—and drive along the familiar road to Mum and Dad’s house. My mind is still racing.

  I was afraid she wouldn’t want to see me.

  But she does want to see me!

  As I drive, badly and fast, past the house Mum lived in as a child, which is now a teashop, I try to think of moments in my life that might have caused the feeling that has overtaken me. I can’t describe it as anything other than longing.

  Mum first told me I was adopted when I was about six years old. We were living in Hong Kong at the time, in a lovely, light four-bedroom apartment that looked over the Star Ferry. I could watch it chugging back and forth across Hong Kong harbor from my bedroom window. Mum had just finished readingThe Hundred and One Dalmatians, and I’d asked Mum how the puppies were born, and she was explaining that they came out of Perdita’s tummy.

  “Is that how human babies come?”

  “Yes,” Mum said. “Human babies grow inside their mummy’s tummies too. Only with human beings, there’s usually only one baby at a time.”

  “I see.”

  I loved this time of day, just before bedtime, when Mum tried to bring some kind of order to my unruly red hair, by brushing it and brushing it, with her cool, carefully manicured hands. I secretly wished I had smooth blond hair, like Mum’s and Charlotte’s, despite the fact that Mum was always telling me how pretty mine was. I bent my head back so she could brush from the top of my head down.

  “So Charlotte and I came out of your tummy?”

  The brushing stopped for a second, and then started again.

  “No, darling.”

  “No?”

  “Charlotte came out of my tummy.”

  There was a pause in the brushing. Then it started again.

  “Didn’t I come out of your tummy too?”

  “Well, no, darling. Before Charlotte was born, we thought there was something wrong with Mummy’s tummy. We thought we couldn’t have a baby. We wanted a baby very much, so we came and got you from the adoption agency. As soon as we saw you, we knew you were the perfect baby for us. And so we brought you home. You were chosen, darling,” Mum said gently, smiling at me in the mirror, with tears in her eyes.

  Within a second my worldview shifted. I was special. I had been chosen. But my poor little sister. She wasn’t chosen, like me. She just came. From that moment on, I was as kind to Charlotte as it’s possible for a six-year-old to be.

  The first time I remember actually picturing the mother who gave me birth was in the middle of a freezing February night at boarding school. I was eleven years old and in deep trouble for shoving the clothes under my bed that I was supposed to have folded and put away.

  I was sent to see Miss Steel, who was not at all happy at being called out of bed to discipline a student. Especially Pippa Dunn, again. The phrases Miss Steel used in her school reports were tame in comparison with how she spoke to me in person. Miss Steel’s face was almost as white as the pictures you see of Queen Elizabeth the First.

  “Your punishment,” she said, standing ramrod straight in her buttoned-up dressing gown, “will be to stand under the clock in the cloakroom until it strikes twelve. You will not speak. You will not move. Upon the stroke of twelve, you may return to bed.”

  It was dark under the clock, and the cloaks took on scary shapes. I shut my eyes tightly. There was a draft coming through the cloakroom door, so I pulled the sleeves of my dressing gown over my hands like mittens.

  I tried to think of anything but the scary gray cloaks, which looked like monks’ habits. The harder I tried not to think about the scary cloaks, the more like faceless, heaving monsters they became: hanging on their hooks in menacing rows, waiting, challenging me not to look at them.

  So I looked above the cloaks, not at them. And when I did, I thought I saw my long-lost mother, looking down at me from above the racks. She was there and yet not there. She was sort of transparent, and she was smiling right at me.

  She was beautiful, and delicate, with red hair, like mine, only hers wasn’t springy. It was long and smooth and cascaded down her back like a mane. And her eyes were gentle and kind. The sight of her filled me with warmth and made all the fear go away.

  And that’s how she’s come to me, over the years. Until now.

  I’m driving through Fenhurst now. The Spread Eagle Hotel—yes, that’s its real name—stands in all its glory, bridging the road in the middle of town, as ugly today as it was when it was first built over six hundred years ago. I spent a night there with Miles once. Wooden beams, white walls, a bed covered in a pink floral bedspread that sloped too far to the left, karaoke in the bar the night before, and no air-conditioning.

  I drive toward my parents’ house in Peaseminster heavy with guilt. The adoption thing was something that happened a long time ago that Mum and Dad put right. But now here I am, about to bring up the one thing that can only cause pain to the people I love most in the world.

  Chapter Five

  MUM ANDDAD’S HOUSE WAS BUILT IN1470 and used to be a farmhouse. It still has parts of its original thatched roof and all its dark wooden beams, a long oak staircase, and large, lovely windows that look out onto a massive maple tree, a glorious green lawn, and a large greenhouse, inside which are rows of tomato plants and a small swimming pool.

  The house, called Little Tew, sits alone, surrounded by wheat-fields, about three miles from Peaseminster. If you climb up the stone path to the hill at the back of the house, you can see Gately Castle nestled amidst miles and miles of Sussex countryside—flat farmland, with bales of hay neatly dotted around in squares, green trees and hedges on yellow ground in the summer.

  There’s a chalk pit on the South Downs, behind the house, where I used to go and smoke cigarettes when I was sixteen. Men in checked caps and green Wellington boots breed pheasants up there in the spring, so they can shoot them dead in the winter.

  The house itself is surrounded by a four-hundred-year-old gray stone wall, with moss growing between its bricks. The wall is high enough to block out the occasional car that drives past on the country road outside. But it’s not high enough to block out the horseback riders, who can be seen from the neck up, trotting up and down, backs straight, hard hats perfectly in place.

  I drive down the last two miles of narrow country lane and through the wooden gates into my parents’ driveway. It’s a warm day and I’m not wearing any shoes. When I get out of Typhoo, the sharp gravel stones hurt my bare feet, as they always do.

  Mum and Dad are on the porch, talking to my cousin Neville, who is staying for the weekend.

  It’s Neville who will think nothing of making an eight-hour drive up to Scotland because I have a sudden longing to stand on the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle and take a walk up Arthur’s Seat. It’s Neville who bought me a keyboard with volume control when I was at university so I could get out of bed and play without disturbing anybody in the middle of the
night.

  Neville’s parents are currently living in Pakistan, and we’re the only family he has in England, so Mum and Dad have practically adopted him too.

  “Hallo Pippadee!” Neville says, hacking away at a fat, stubborn carrot. He’s been helping Mum with the vegetables for tonight’s beef stew. “I heard you had a spot of engine trouble on the M25,” he says, referring to my latest car fiasco. I’d called the tow chap, insisting the engine had fallen out, because I heard a clunk. It turned out I’d run out of petrol.

  “I need to talk to Mum,” I say.

  “Oooooo. Boyfriend troubles.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Whatever it is, it’s private.”

  Mum laughs. Her eyes light up when she laughs. “Go on. Off you go,” she says, pushing her six-foot nephew off the porch.

  “Miles, Miles, it’s always about Miles,” he says. “He loves you, you siren, he hasn’t eaten in weeks…”

  “Goaway !”

  Neville makes a kissy-kissy face and retreats into the sitting room.

  Mum brings two cups of tea and a plate of Swiss rolls on a tray from the kitchen. My heart is beating wildly. I have no idea how to begin.

  “I can’t believe how warm it is,” I say.

  “Daddy and I nearly went swimming last week,” she says. “Unbelievable.”

  The teacup clicks back in the saucer. I can hear the low hum of the swimming-pool heater in the corner of the porch. I can smell sweetly scented wallflowers through the screen window.

  I devour a Swiss roll, crumple the wrapper into a little gold ball, and flick it into the plant pot.

  “Oh darling, I do wish you wouldn’t do that. Boris knows exactly where to find your wrappers, and you know silver foil isn’t good for dogs.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Well, take it out. Honestly.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I reach to take the wrapper out of the plant pot and send my teacup flying.

  “I’m sorry!” I say. “Oh God, I’m so sorry!” The tea has spilled all over the carpet. Mum rushes into the kitchen to get a cloth, as she has so many times before.

  “I’ll do it!” she says. “Just sit down, Pippa, so you can’t do any more damage.”

  I sit in the red armchair that belonged to Granny H. before she died. I watch Mum clean up the mess, feeling guilty and incompetent.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “It’s all right, darling,” she says. “Really.”

  It’s not. I still drive Mum crazy with my clumsiness. I hear Charlotte’s favorite quip in my head: “Pippa can’t walk across a room without spilling at least something.” It’s said with affection, and without exaggeration.

  The tea cleared up, Mum and I sit for a moment, looking out over her lovely pink and yellow rose garden. Every third evening or so, Mum deadheads the roses. Then she puts them in a red plastic bowl and throws them on the compost heap, in the northeast corner of the garden, where the stone walls meet.

  I’ve never been so nervous. Mum looks so content, sitting on the porch in her sunglasses, taking the tea cosy off her Brown Betty teapot, and pouring in more hot water from the stainless steel jug she’s used for this purpose ever since I can remember.

  “Gemma! Gemma!” Dad’s voice calls in from the sitting room, where he can often be found, earphones on, conducting an imaginary orchestra with a pencil when he thinks no one is looking. Today he’s watching the rugby. “It’s Scotland five, Wales nil!”

  “Wonderful, darling,” Mum says. Then, turning toward me, she asks, “What is it, Pippadee? What’s wrong?”

  “Well, nothing’s wrong exactly,” I say.

  “Is it Miles?”

  “Oh no,” I say. “I’m over that. Really.” And I am. Sort of.

  “Scotland seven, Gemma! Can you believe it? Scotland seven!” Dad’s voice again. Mum stands up, gently shuts the door, and sits back down again.

  She is waiting for me to speak. I’m trying to relax, but in truth I can hardly breathe. Mum takes a sip of her tea and waits.

  “Last night…,” I say, finally. There’s a pause.

  “Yes?”

  I can’t speak.

  “Last night…?” Mum repeats, looking at me intently over the rim of her teacup.

  “Well,” I manage to say, finally, “last night, on a sort of impulse, I called the adoption agency you got me from in New York.”

  I take in a deep breath and let it out again.

  “Oh yes,” Mum says, utterly unruffled.

  “Well, I called just to find out what I’d have to do, if ever I wanted to find out who my biological parents were. And, well…” I don’t want to hurt her. God, I don’t want to hurt her. “Well…,” I say.

  And then it comes out. All of it. I tell her about my conversation with the agency and about the non-identifying information they said they’d send. Mum sits there, listening carefully. I can’t see into her eyes. She’s still wearing sunglasses.

  “Oh, Mum, I won’t do any of this if you’d rather I didn’t. If you’d be upset by it in any way. But I did want to tell you what happened,” I say, unable to stop the tears.

  “It’s fine, darling,” she says. “Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

  “I won’t do it if you have any problem with it…”

  “Of course you must do it,” she says. “Of course you must! If you and—and this woman…Darling, listen to me. Good heavens, there isn’t enough love in this world as it is, Pippa. Why would it matter if you and this woman love each other? Nothing can replace the years we’ve had together.”

  “Of course not!” I gush. “Of course not! And, anyway, I might hate her, if she’s still alive…which it appears she might be. Oh Mum!” I look at my mother across the porch. “Is it really okay with you?”

  “Of course it is, darling, don’t be silly. Anyway,” she says, pouring another cup of tea, “it shouldn’t really matter what Daddy and I think.”

  “But it does,” I say.

  “Well that’s nice, darling. But you’re a grown-up now. You can do what you want. And it’s fine. Of course it is.”

  The next day, we go on a walk around Siddenton, a small fishing village by the sea. I walk on ahead, along the path by the sea, looking out over the Mirrors and Lasers and Toppers sailing about in the harbor. I’ve never liked sailing or had much in common with the people who love it, including my father, who is now walking beside me.

  He’s wearing the light green Pringle sweater I gave him at Christmas, his favorite shorts, and dark green socks, pulled up to just under his knees. Despite the fact that he’s two inches shorter than I am, he walks fast, in long strides, like I do. But there the similarities end.

  “Mummy told me about your decision last night, Pippa.”

  My heart feels tight.

  “Have you really thought this through? I mean, think about it, Pip. What kind of a woman would give up her child?”

  I look at my father’s worried face. I want to cry and tell him it has all been a dreadful mistake and I don’t want to pursue it at all. But I can’t.

  “You’re opening Pandora’s box,” Dad says.

  “I know, Dad,” I say. “But unless I do this I’m never going to know why I am who I am.”

  He looks at me in the slightly baffled way he usually looks at me.

  “But you’re Pippa.”

  “Oh Dad, you know I’m different from you, Mum, and Charlotte. I always have been.”

  Before he can answer, something wet and smelly dashes past us.

  “No, Boris!” Dad says, chasing after the dog. “Not in the mud! No, Boris! No!”

  As Boris and Dad charge along the path above the sea, I walk behind them, breathing in the sea air as deeply as I can. A gull swoops past us and out over the ocean. Dad returns, holding Boris by the collar.

  “I had a dream last night,” he says, straining to keep Boris at his side. “I dreamed that Mummy had her head chopped off.”

  “Oh Dad!” I say. “Dad! I’m not lo
oking for a replacement mother! Nothing could replace Mum, ever! I just need to know.”

  Dad pulls Boris toward the car.

  I know he’s right. I will be opening Pandora’s box. But I’m utterly relieved he hasn’t asked me not to do it, despite his obvious misgivings.

  Because I know that, for me, not doing this would mean a kind of death.

  Chapter Six

  FULL OF GUILT,I return to London and wait with intense anticipation for news from the adoption agency in New York.

  Days, then weeks pass.

  I can’t make any sort of order out of the chaos in my head, my heart, or my room. Each night I have to slog through piles of clothes and chocolate wrappers to get to my bed. As each day passes, the waiting gets more and more difficult and the stacks of debris get higher and higher.

  Always trying to drag me into his and Charlotte’s never-ending social life, Rupert invites me to a drinks party. I go, because, as I predicted, he’s asked my only sister to marry him, and she’s said yes. When she calls me with the news I tell her I’m thrilled for her. Because that’s the appropriate response, and she seems so happy about it.

  Actually to me the whole concept of marriage is even more alarming than falling in love. I don’t want to have to spend my precious life doing everything I can to make sure the man I’ve married doesn’t leave me. Looking at Rupert and Charlotte holding hands under the chandelier, I try to imagine what it might be like to be able to trust someone completely. But I can’t. I try to picture myself having children. But I can’t. It does occur to me that it might be nice, one day, to produce children with someone. Children that come from you. And him.

  But first you have to find the “him.”

  And in my case, if you want to know anything about the people whose DNA your children would share, you have to find the “her” as well.

  The party is excruciating, but I’ve promised Charlotte I’ll behave myself and stay as long as I can stand it. The girls are all called Fiona and spend the evening drinking Pimm’s and eating warm prunes wrapped in bacon, talking about Becks, Kate Moss, and Princess Diana, who one of the Fionas’ mothers shared a dormitory with at West Heath School.