“Might’ve bin brewing a bit too long. Wake up the little ’un good and proper, this will,” she said, straightening, and patting my belly affectionately.
She took two flower-patterned china mugs from the cupboard, poured the coffee and added three spoonfuls of sugar to one of them. She paused with the spoon midair.
“Sugar for you, love? I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve always had a sweet tooth, ever since I was a little girl. ‘Sylvia, you’re sweet enough already,’ my dad used to say, but a little of what you fancy does you good.”
I declined. She went over to the fridge and returned with a canister and a bottle.
“Squirty cream or milk?” she asked, adding a thick swirl to her own mug.
“Black, please.”
“Ooh, aren’t you the sophisticated one?”
* * *
We were seated on cream leather sofas in the lounge, facing each other across a glass-topped Louis XIV–style coffee table, on which lay the statement I’d drafted. Aunt Sylvia leaned forward, turned to the last page and signed it, without even glancing at the contents. I suggested she might want to read it through first, but she said there was no need.
“You’re better with words than me, love. I know it’ll all be right.”
I’d wrestled with the question of whether, in the changed circumstances, I should still ask Aunt Sylvia to sign the document. In the end, I decided I would; whatever the outcome of today’s discussion, I still needed witness statements to back up the medical evidence in my case against Edward.
“Now that that’s out of the way, tell me what you’ve bin up to,” Aunt Sylvia said, picking up her mug and spooning the cream from the top.
“I went to see the vicar of St. Stephen’s yesterday.”
“That’s nice. He was a very good friend to your mum. Always looks well-turned-out, even though he’s got a beard.”
“He said Mum had a secret.”
Aunt Sylvia put down her mug and spoon, and began brushing fluff from her skirt.
“Did he, love? I wonder why he’d say such a thing. I suppose everyone has a few skeletons in the closet, though. I’m sure it wasn’t anything important. I should’ve brought some biscuits in with us. I’ve got some lovely Scottish shortbread. Would you like one?” She stood up.
“Apparently Mum told him I was adopted.”
I was calm, much calmer than I thought I’d be. My aunt sat back down again. The color rose from her neck to her cheeks.
“She was muddled, though—you’ve said it yourself. We’ve all said it, haven’t we?”
“Not about this. I know who’s named as ‘mother’ on my birth certificate. I’ve come here today because I want to hear it from you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean... Oh, Susan, love,” Aunt Sylvia cried. “Oh, I don’t know what to say.”
“What about telling me the truth? It’s about time someone did.”
“It shouldn’t’ve come out like this. I didn’t think Patricia still had that birth certificate. She told me she’d destroyed it after the adoption was finalized. When did you find it?”
“Yesterday. It was hidden at the bottom of Mum’s jewelry box.”
“I can’t imagine what you must be thinking.”
She stood up once again and stumbled round the coffee table to join me. She tried to grab my hands, but I pulled them away, then heaved myself along to the far end of the sofa.
“Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t touch me. I just want the facts.”
“Susan, I wanted to tell you, ever since you were a little girl. But I couldn’t, could I? Patricia was your mum. She was bringing you up as her own daughter. It wasn’t for me to rock the boat. It would’ve upset the whole family—your mum, your dad, your grandma and grandpa, Uncle Frank. And it would’ve confused you. I did what I thought was for the best. I went along with what everyone wanted.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me as soon as Mum died?”
“I thought about it, honest I did. But you were grieving. And then I found out you were in the family way. I didn’t think you should have to cope with this, as well. And I would’ve had to tell Wendy and Chrissie. Uncle Frank knows. I told him before we got married. He had the collywobbles about going through with the wedding, but he stood by me in the end. I’m going to tell the girls as soon as they’re back from wherever it is they’ve gone. Once they get used to the idea, they’ll be over the moon you’re their sister.”
“I’m not interested in whether you tell them or not—that’s a matter for you. All I want,” I added, slowly and firmly, “is the truth about my birth.”
From the hallway came the sound of a telephone ringing. My aunt made as if to get up, then changed her mind. We both listened, wordlessly, waiting for the caller to hang up or for the answerphone to click in. Eventually it stopped. Aunt Sylvia cleared her throat.
“Susan, love, I was so young.” So began the story of my birth. “I was only seventeen when I found out—still living at home. It was less than a year since I’d left school, and I’d only recently got my first job—in the tie department in Rackhams. I had all the boys after me, but I always went so far and no further. Other than that one time. When I realized I was pregnant, I was horrified. It felt like my life was ruined.” She shook her head, as if to dislodge the memory.
“You could’ve had an abortion, if I was such a terrible mistake,” I snapped. “You didn’t need to bring an unwanted child into the world.”
“Don’t say ‘unwanted.’ It wasn’t like that. I never once thought about a termination. It wasn’t that I disapproved—I knew a couple of girls who’d done it and hadn’t had any regrets, but for some reason I decided straightaway that I wasn’t going down that road.”
My baby was pressing uncomfortably on my bladder. I shifted position on the slippery leather sofa.
“So how come you just gave me away?”
Aunt Sylvia flinched.
“When I started to show, I knew I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. The only person I could think of to tell was your mum. She was married to your dad by then, and living across the city, so we didn’t see so much of each other. I met her at the Kardomah Café one Saturday during my lunch break. I was shaking like a leaf when I told her. I thought she’d go mad. She was fifteen years older than me, remember, so she was more than just a big sister. She was so understanding, though. She asked who the father was, and whether he’d do the right thing. I told her it was just someone I’d met at a dance—that I’d never seen him before or since. ‘Everything’ll be alright,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain it all to Mum and Dad. Whatever they say, I’ll stick by you.’”
Aunt Sylvia rose to fetch a gold tissue-box holder from the sideboard, while I tried to assimilate the fact that I was simply the by-product of a one-night stand. She settled back down on the sofa and dabbed the corners of her eyes, careful not to smudge her heavy makeup.
“I felt so guilty telling your mum, and putting all the worry on her, but she was true to her word. She came round to ours the next day, sat your grandma and grandpa at the kitchen table and just told them. Like it was nothing at all to worry about. Your grandma was blubbing and your grandpa looked like he was going to wallop me. Then they started saying things like, ‘What’re the neighbors going to think?’, ‘How’re you going to support it?’, ‘How’re you ever going to get a husband now?’ I didn’t have any answers. Your mum did, though. She must’ve bin thinking it all through. ‘Am I right that you’re not going to have any support from the father?’
“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And am I right that you don’t want this baby to ruin your life?’
“‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘Then there’s only one solution, Sylvia.’ It was obvious where this was going. ‘I can’t just give it away to a stranger,’ I told her. ‘Not to a stranger. To me and Clive.’”
; “Why would she do that? It was your mess, not hers. It’s a big sacrifice to make, even for a sister.”
“It wasn’t a sacrifice for her. You see, your mum and dad had bin trying for a baby since they got married. There’d bin three pregnancies and three miscarriages one after the other. She felt like time was ticking. Your mum was in her thirties and she thought she wasn’t going to be able to carry a baby herself. I think she decided it’d happened for a reason. I remember she’d got it all planned out. ‘Sylvia can tell her boss she’s going to stay with relatives for a while. She’ll have to resign, but hopefully they’ll take her back. She can go to Auntie Gladys’s in Rhyl until the baby’s born, then she can come back home as if nothing’s happened. Nobody’ll be any the wiser. And Clive and me can adopt the baby. That way we keep it in the family, and everyone’s happy.’ Your grandma and grandpa calmed down a bit after that. Two problems solved in one fell swoop, you see—your mum’s childlessness and my unplanned pregnancy.”
“Very neat and tidy. Everything swept under the carpet.”
“Nobody even bothered asking me, love. They all just assumed I’d go along with it. So I did. I couldn’t see any alternative. But the week after I gave birth to you, when your mum and dad came up to Rhyl, I didn’t think I could hand you over. You were so beautiful. Your eyes were the bluest blue I’d ever seen, and the tufty hair on top of your head was the softest I’d ever felt. While they were nattering to Auntie Gladys, I wrapped you up in a shawl and tucked your little bunny next to you—I’d knitted it in the last month before you were born—and just held you and held you and held you.”
My Bunnikins. It had always been my bedtime favorite; it was now wrapped in tissue paper in a shoebox at the bottom of my wardrobe. I’d always thought my mother had knitted it for me.
“When your mum and dad left, they took you with them. I’ve never cried so much in my life. I kept saying to myself, it wasn’t as if you were gone forever. I could still see you whenever I wanted. I’d still be able to cuddle you and talk to you and watch you grow up.”
Aunt Sylvia sniffed, took a deep breath and smiled at me. I turned away, toward the white marble mantelpiece. It was crammed with framed photographs of Aunt Sylvia, Uncle Frank, Wendy, Christine and the grandchildren. I noticed that, at the end nearest me, there was a small, heart-shaped silver frame containing a black-and-white photograph of a newborn baby. If it was Wendy or Christine, there would be an identical picture in a matching frame. There wasn’t.
“Anyway, I stayed behind in Rhyl for a couple of weeks, until I’d got over the birth and looked almost back to normal. It all worked out just as your mum had planned. The neighbors knew nothing about it and Rackhams took me back. Your mum used to bring you to visit every week. At first it was hard, seeing you in her arms, and then having to say goodbye to you all over again. But then, I suppose, I just got used to it. You became Patricia’s daughter, my niece.”
“How convenient for you,” I said, turning back to face my aunt. She flinched again, but continued with her story.
“Everyone was surprised when your mum became pregnant a year later, but we assumed it would end in miscarriage like the others. This time, though, she managed to carry the baby all the way. I’ve never seen her as happy as she was the day Edward arrived.”
“I can imagine.”
“To be honest, I was green with envy when I saw her with her little family. Eventually, I met Uncle Frank and had the twins, and the rest is history. I’m so sorry, Susan. I’m sorry your mum and dad never told you the truth. But you can see, can’t you, that none of this was my fault? I just did what I was told. I wish things’d bin different, but you play with the hand you’re dealt. Now that you know the truth, I won’t have to pretend anymore. You’re my girl now. You always will be.”
The eyeliner and mascara were forming inky pools in the corners of Aunt Sylvia’s eyes. She dabbed them again with a tissue.
“And what about my biological father? I need to know everything you remember about him.”
Her expression changed from pitiful to fearful.
“I’ll just have to gather my thoughts, love. I’m going to pop to the little girl’s room. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
I was beginning to feel claustrophobic; the ceilings of the lounge seemed too low, the carpet too thick, the air too heavy with perfume from the scent diffuser on a nearby card table. I struggled up, walked through the door to the conservatory and gazed through the window. The sky was steel gray, and there was a fine drizzle; the sort that seems little more than mist but drenches you in seconds. The branches of the trees were bare, and there were no signs of life in the sodden flowerbeds. I watched a solitary magpie land on the bird table, realize there was nothing for him and fly away. After a while, Aunt Sylvia appeared in the doorway, looking resigned.
“I’m getting myself a glass of sherry before I carry on. Dutch courage. Can I get you one?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
When she returned, carrying a crystal glass, she suggested we make ourselves comfy in the lounge again.
“I’d rather stay here.”
“But it’s so chilly. Never can get the orangery warm in the winter.”
“I really don’t care.”
I eased myself into a wicker armchair, and Aunt Sylvia, reluctantly, did the same.
“So? What about my father?”
“Susan, I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this. Nobody else knows but me—not even Uncle Frank. I could carry it with me to the grave if I wanted—it’d probably be easier for everyone if I did—but I’m going to tell you. You deserve to know the whole story. No more secrets, eh?”
Aunt Sylvia looked down at her hands and started twisting a large diamond-encrusted eternity ring round and round on her finger.
“Like I said, I was only seventeen at the time, although people used to say I seemed much older, ’cos of the way I dressed—you know, like a film star. I always looked up to your mum. She had it all—a husband, a house, a job, enough money to buy nice things. It’s hard to remember, but your dad was an attractive man in those days. He was thirty-two, well-respected in his field—whatever that was—and very charming. The fact is, I had a bit of a soft spot for him. Of course, he was already drinking too much. Everyone knew that.”
“He was an alcoholic.”
“I know, love, but in those days he seemed like someone who just took it a bit too far, like Oliver Reed or Richard Harris. His drinking came across as rebellious, not weak and destructive like it was later. Nobody guessed how it would take him over.”
“How is any of this relevant?”
There was a long pause. I could hear the faint tick of the ormolu carriage clock through the lounge door, and the buzz of a tractor in the distance.
“The evening in question we’d bin at a family wedding. It was cousin Shirley’s—remember her? Lives in Australia now.”
I nodded.
“It was on a Friday,” she continued, “and I had to get up early for work the next day, so I decided not to stay to the end. Shirley said, why didn’t your dad give me a lift home, then come back to the reception? He wasn’t keen, because he was enjoying himself, but he’d just got a new car, which I think he quite fancied showing off, so in the end he agreed. He’d already had a few drinks, but people didn’t bother so much in those days. On the way, he was joking with me, saying I looked like the Brigitte Bardot of Birmingham. When we got back to your grandparents’ house, he decided he’d come in and have one for the road. He knew where my dad kept his whiskey.”
“I don’t know why you’re telling me all this. I want to know about my biological father, not my adopted father.”
“I’m getting there, love. I’m leading up to it.” She picked up her sherry glass, took a sip, then carried on. “I was already feeling a bit tipsy. I didn’t usually drink, but I’d had a couple of Babychams that nigh
t. I put a Tom Jones record on the gramophone and started dancing. Your dad got up and joined in. We were in fits of laughter at first, doing silly moves.”
She took another sip from her glass, and I noticed that her hands were trembling. I had a sudden sense of where this was leading; I hoped against hope that I was wrong.
“Well, let’s leave it at that.” She sighed. “It was just the once. I regretted it straightaway, and I could tell he did, too. He left soon after and I didn’t see him again for weeks. I never told him I was pregnant.”
“No!”
“The only time he talked to me about it was after your mum had come up with the idea of adopting the baby. He turned up at my counter in Rackhams late one afternoon, shortly before I handed in my notice. All he said was, ‘Is it mine?’ I said, ‘Yes,’ and he said, ‘I’m sorry.’ That was it.”
“Please God, no.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“The next day your mum phoned to say your dad had agreed to adopt the baby. She never knew he was your real dad. At least, I never said anything. I did sometimes wonder, over the years, whether your dad might’ve told her when he was drunk, but if he did she never let on. She’d banned anyone in the family—even me—from talking about the adoption. We all just acted like you were hers. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.” She knocked back the rest of her sherry and put the glass on the table. “You must see, Susan, none of it was my fault, or your dad’s. He’d never shown any of that kind of interest in me before. It was just a few minutes of madness for both of us. I don’t regret it now, though, because look at you. You’re a wonderful girl, so clever and beautiful. I couldn’t be more proud of you. And you’re going to give me another grandchild. The only thing that makes me sad is thinking about what you had to go through with your dad’s drinking. I know it was tough for you. It was tough for me, too, standing by and watching. If I could’ve taken you back I would’ve. But I couldn’t.”
The Cactus Page 28