Pagan and her parents

by Michael Arditti

  She leaves and I doubt that I will ever see her again, but the shock of her visit makes me all the more determined to pursue my adoption plans and to have my position protected by law. I discuss my decision with Max, who is surprisingly supportive, while insisting that, to fulfil the regulations, I must wait until she has been back with me for at least a year. So, on May 12th, he writes to both the Court and the local authority. Six weeks later, I am allocated a social worker: Charlotte Walsh, an effusive woman in her mid-forties, who tells me that she specialises in adoption since she finds general social work too harrowing … ‘I think of it as the difference between being a midwife and a nurse.’

  That may be why she finds it so difficult dealing with a single father. She subjects me to a series of interviews. She wants to be sure that Pagan will have adequate female role models and that my friends are not all gay. She is anxious to learn how I will cope when she starts seeing boyfriends and how she copes when I introduce my boyfriends to her. Puberty features high on her list of pitfalls. I insist that my gender need not put me at a disadvantage … after all, your mother left you to face your first period totally unprepared. She seems impressed by my conviction and eager to demonstrate that she is no prude. Indeed, my admission that, since the split with Benedict, I have neither current nor prospective attachments elicits a look of such sympathy that I suspect that she may be about to supply me with a list of eligible men.

  By her third visit, I sense that she is on my side. She apologises if the questions seem tortuous, explaining that, unlike some of her colleagues, she believes in preparing the fullest possible report, since, as well as constituting the basis of my application, it will provide Pagan with the only official record of her natural parents. Assuring her that I am happy to do anything to assist the process, I talk extensively about you and Robin, faltering only over the details of his death. I hate having to lie to someone so sincere; nevertheless, Pagan’s peace of mind outweighs my scruples. As Robyn herself said, the man she was is dead. Far better that he should be laid to rest at Crierley than return from beyond the grave.

  The report is submitted, the recommendations accepted, and, on the 3rd of August, the local authority approves the adoption. The rest is up to the Court. The hearing is fixed for the 28th September at 9.45 a.m., so Max takes the train to Brighton the evening before. Pagan’s aversion to the town means that we decide to drive down on the day. My mother rings as we are setting off to tell me that she is praying for us, while David sends a card to say that he and Griffin have been chanting. Now all we need is for Imogen to prepare a Druidical sacrifice, and we will have propitiated all the gods.

  ‘You promised that we’d never ever come to Brighton again,’ Pagan reminds me, as we pass the Handcross Happy Eater.

  ‘It’s worth it, isn’t it? Just this once. If we can be together from now on.’

  ‘I hate going to court.’

  ‘It’s not my favourite occupation either. But remember, this time, we’re here for us.’

  The courtroom is the same as for the first residence hearing. It seems larger now that there are only five of us: Max, the adoption officer, the guardian ad litem, myself and Pagan, who looks so pretty in her new coat, with her hair cut short and her face puzzled by the import of Mrs Walsh’s ‘dressed up to the nines’.

  ‘Does that mean that, last year, I was dressed to the eights and, the year before, I was dressed to the sevens?’

  ‘No, it’s always to the nines.’

  ‘Even when I’m ten?’

  ‘Even when you’re forty like me.’

  ‘I’ll never be forty.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’ll stay twenty-nine for ever, like I heard Aunt Imogen telling Uncle William.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ll be consistent.’

  ‘Then he said that she’d put all his plans at sixes and sevens –’

  Any further revelations are forestalled by the arrival of the clerk, who summons us to the Judge’s room. On entering, I see, to my horror, that it is occupied by Judge Flower. The coincidence is as chilling as a black cat, the Queen of Spades and a single magpie crossing my path, my palm and the sky all at once. I am steeling myself for defeat, when, to my amazement, he stands and shakes my hand as though all our previous encounters had been at the Athenaeum and smiles at Pagan as though she were his favourite niece. He leads her to the chair next to his and asks for her views on the adoption, which she gives as unequivocally as ever.

  ‘I’m very pleased to have the chance to meet you at last, young lady. What with one thing and another, I’ve heard quite a lot about you over the past three years. No child of your age – or, indeed, of any age – should have to go through what you have. But I’m delighted to see that you’ve been able to put it behind you so successfully. You’ve been very fortunate in having had Leo to fight for you … more fortunate than you may realise, certainly more fortunate than I realised. I was at fault, and I trust that he’ll forgive me.’ I nod furiously; I am prepared to forgive anything for such a change of heart. ‘I’ve read all the papers, the Schedule Two and the Guardian’s report, and I’m struck by the force of their recommendations; although I note that Pagan’s grandmother expresses objections to the proposed adoption –’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Pagan blurts out. I calm her.

  ‘I say only that I note it, as I am obliged to do. I see also that there is no parent from whom I have to obtain consent. Since I am satisfied that the adoption is in Pagan’s best interests, I am happy to make the Order as asked. May I be the first to congratulate you both?’

  I hold Pagan tight to my chest. Her heart thumps against mine. I dare not allow myself to cry, in case the Judge should revoke the Order on the grounds of effeminacy. Mrs Walsh feels no such constraints. The Judge tells Pagan that an adopted child is special, since she has two days to celebrate: her birthday and her adoption day; and, as a token of the occasion, he presents her with a box of Brighton rock. He then removes his wig from a battered tin and offers her the chance to wear it. She is initially reluctant but, after some coaxing, puts it on. He lifts it out of her eyes and leads her on a judicial progress around the room, which the clerk interrupts with a reminder that he is due in court.

  ‘Oh well. I fear that the rest of my day is unlikely to be so pleasant.’ He frowns, and I catch a glimpse of the familiar Judge Flower.

  ‘Aren’t you going to give us a piece of paper?’ Pagan asks.

  ‘That’ll come later, darling,’ I assure her.

  ‘But it won’t be proper if it’s not on paper.’ Her lower lip quivers. ‘I said I’d take it to school to show my friends.’ The Judge ponders.

  ‘Well, I can’t give you an official document here and now, but I may be able to manage something.’ He takes out a sheet of headed paper and writes in a hand that resembles my mother’s: ‘This is to say that Pagan Mulliner was today formally adopted by Leonard Peter Young. By order of His Honour Judge Flower at the Brighton County Court.’ He gives it to her. ‘There, will that do?’ She reads it carefully and replies very quietly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  We leave the room and return through the Court to the foyer, which is now packed with people. I stride through all the divorces, injunctions and maintenance claims, feeling nothing but my own elation … the black cat has vanished; a second magpie is hovering; the Queen of Spades is part of a royal flush. I look at my watch. Unlike the weeks that I have spent in courtrooms over the past few years, the hearing took a mere fifteen minutes. We stroll out into the salty September air. Max is heading straight back to London, but Pagan and I decide to spend the morning in Brighton, to which she is suddenly reconciled. She asks me to take her to the pier.

  I hold her hand as we stare into the sea. ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ I say, ‘to think that all these people, all these buildings, all this life, came from out of here?’

  ‘From the sea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like mermaids?’

  ‘Like ta
dpoles. Like the tiniest tadpoles. Like tadpoles we can’t even see.’

  ‘And that made me?’

  ‘Yes. Though it didn’t happen overnight. It’s taken over three hundred million years to create something as perfect as you.’

  ‘I wish I could live for three hundred million years.’

  ‘If you’re perfect enough, perhaps you will.’

  We walk along the pier and into the amusement arcade, where some of the faces on display point to a less rosy theory of evolution. We do not linger and return past the poster shop, palmist and handwriting analyst. Pagan pauses by a booth that offers ‘surnames traced by computer’.

  ‘Can I have a go?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t last time.’

  ‘If you like,’ I say and listen to her give the name Mulliner.

  ‘No, that’s wrong,’ I alert the assistant. ‘Your name isn’t Mulliner any more; it’s Young.’

  ‘Of course.’ She claps her hands. ‘Like yours.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Does it mean I’m going to have new name-tapes?’

  ‘I suppose it does.’

  ‘Will Juliet sew them on for me?’

  ‘If you ask her politely.’

  ‘And will I have to rewrite my name in all my books at school?’

  ‘Whatever you want. It’s up to you.’

  ‘And does it mean I’m allowed to call you Daddy?’

  ‘Would you like to?’ I savour the new-found legitimacy.

  ‘More than anything in the world … in the galaxy … in the universe.’

  ‘Then you shall.’

  Copyright

  First published in 1996

  by Arcadia Books Books, 15-16 Nassau Street, London, W1W 7AB

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  All rights reserved

  © Michael Arditti, 1996

  The right of Michael Arditti to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–1–90812–936–9