Aunt Sylvia was finally silent. She appeared to be awaiting a reaction from me, but I was as incapable of responding to her as would be a statue carved from a block of ice. Her story of my conception resounded in my head like the edge of a glacier shearing off into the ocean. My blood was a frozen river; icicles of pain were piercing my head, jabbing behind my eyes, in the roots of my teeth. There was a sharp ringing in my ears, and it seemed that the air in the room was searing my lungs.
“You do understand, don’t you, Susan? Say you do, love. Say you don’t hold anything against me. I’m glad you found out, honest I am. This can be a brand-new start for all of us, now everything’s out in the open.”
She was pawing my arm and looking at me pleadingly.
“You’ve made the facts very clear to me.” I shivered. “But please don’t expect me to say you weren’t to blame.”
“Susan, you don’t understand what it was like in those days. It was still a shameful thing to be an unmarried mum. Maybe not so much in London, or among trendy, arty types, but where we were from, well, my parents wouldn’t’ve bin able to live it down.”
“I do know what it was like. I’m not stupid. But I also know what you’re like. You’ve always been a flirt. You can’t even say hello to a man without turning on the feminine charms. Everyone knows that. You were jealous of your sister, and you wanted what she’d got. You seduced my father when his self-control was undermined by drink, then were too spineless to face the consequences of your actions. Yes, I do understand. I understand completely.”
“It wasn’t like that at all, Susan.”
I felt desperate to escape, to get away from this woman who didn’t seem to have any awareness—not the slightest inkling—of what she’d done. I ignored her cry of self-pity and checked my watch; I’d been at the bungalow for almost two hours. With fortuitous timing the Big Ben chimes of the doorbell echoed from the hallway. I pushed myself out of the wicker chair and made my way through the lounge to the cloakroom. Aunt Sylvia tottered after me.
“Stay a bit longer, love. Let’s talk some more.”
“We’ve said everything there is to say to each other,” I told her, as I wriggled into my too-small coat.
“But we haven’t. We’ve barely started. Don’t walk out on me like this. Ask Rob to come back a bit later. I’ll make us a bite to eat.”
I shook my head and pushed past her to the door.
“You did what you did. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. You turned your back on me, and now I’m turning mine on you.”
* * *
On the journey from Aunt Sylvia’s to the station, Rob endeavored to establish from me why I’d ushered him straight back to the van as soon as I’d opened the front door, and why my aunt’s face looked like melted candle wax. I told him we’d been going over family history. He clearly sensed there was more to it than that.
“I’m here when you feel ready to open up,” he said.
He might have a long wait.
To avoid any further unwelcome references to what had happened at Aunt Sylvia’s, I asked Rob about the garden he’d visited that morning. He was still describing it in mind-numbing detail when we reached the outskirts of Birmingham.
* * *
Rob switched off the van’s engine in the multistory car park and turned to me in the gloom.
“Susan, before you go I’ve got a proposition to make. This mightn’t be the greatest timing, but ‘he who hesitates is lost,’ as they say. And after what happened last night I feel I’m on firmer ground.”
“Nothing happened last night, other than that we slept in proximity to each other. To be more accurate, you slept and I tossed and turned.”
“Alright, but listen. You know I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I met up with Alison. It’s as if I’ve had blinkers on for months, and now I’ve finally taken them off. I can see the whole picture.”
“I don’t have much time, Rob. Can you get to the point please?”
“Okay, right.” He took a deep breath. “Well, you know I told you I’m toying with the idea of relocating to London and merging my business with my mate’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you think about us moving in together?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“We can rent at first, if you’re worried about the commitment. You must’ve worked out what I feel about you, and I’ve been getting the message that you feel the same. Disregard the fact that we’ve only known each other properly for a few months—when something’s right it’s right. We’re very different, but we complement each other. You know the saying, ‘The whole’s greater than the sum of its parts’? That’s us. You’d be good for me and, well, I’d be fantastic for you. And at our age why waste any more time?”
This was the last thing I needed; I already felt under siege, bombarded, almost overwhelmed by wave after wave of assault on my psyche. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. Far from making plans to share my life with someone, all I wanted was to get home, lock the door, switch off my phone and shut out the world. Recent events had proved what I’d known all along; other people couldn’t be trusted.
“That’s a ludicrous idea,” I said, fumbling in my haste to unfasten my seat belt.
“I know, but what the hell?”
“Why do you think I’d want to live with you, when I’ve never, ever had any desire to share my life with anyone? I enjoy my own company, I value my independence, I like doing things my way. I don’t want some great lumbering man messing up my house and getting under my feet. And you’re wrong to assume, just because we seem to get on with each other, that I have other sorts of feelings for you. I have a train to catch in fifteen minutes. I really don’t need this, Rob.”
With difficulty, I bent, grabbed my handbag from the foot well and thrust open the van door.
“I notice you haven’t actually said ‘no,’ though.”
“No. Under no circumstances. Absolutely not. Is that clear enough for you?”
March
25
I should be celebrating the fact that I’m on maternity leave—no more wedging my colossal belly into packed commuter trains, no more suffering my colleagues’ infuriating tics and inane chatter, ample time to pursue my own interests—but I find myself in a state of limbo; I’m unable to think how to fill each endless, empty day. This month, if all goes well, I’ll become the mother of a baby daughter. I believe the appropriate feeling is one of nervous anticipation, but I’m barely thinking about it. How can I contemplate what lies ahead when I’m ensnared by the past?
It’s only in recent days that I’ve reached the depths of this all-engulfing despondence. The morning after my return from Birmingham I had, in fact, woken with rekindled spirit. I was angry, fired up. It was time to take back control. I’d deliver the deathblow in my court case, get the house and contents sold, and move on with my life, free of any remaining ties to my family and the past. Clean, clinical and quick.
I sent the witness statement to Margaret, who signed and returned it within a couple of days, then I fired off emails to Mr. Brinkworth and to my brother’s solicitors, Lawson, Lowe & Co. I attached copies of the most damning pages of the medical notes (the ones referring to my mother’s diagnosis and its debilitating symptoms) and of the statements by Aunt Sylvia and Margaret. I told Mr. Brinkworth that my evidence proved it had been negligence of the worst possible kind for him to take my mother’s instructions without seeking confirmation from a doctor that she knew what she was doing. I said that validity was no longer an issue; a will written by an elderly lady with vascular dementia could never stand up to the court’s scrutiny.
In my other email, I pointed out to Lawson, Lowe & Co. that the medical records showed their client had been fully aware of my mother’s diagnosis, and so would have known she was vulnerable to pressure
from him. He’d kept that information secret. In light of my evidence the court would be highly suspicious of a will that conferred a benefit on Edward greater than that which was conferred on his sister. I demanded that both Mr. Brinkworth and Lawson, Lowe & Co. stop playing games and concede defeat. I was supremely confident they would do so. My evidence had demolished their case. I congratulated myself; it was a job well-done on my part. If anyone thought I’d sit back and let events unfold—that I’d allow myself to be a victim of other people’s negligence or treachery—they had made a very grave miscalculation.
* * *
I was almost tempted to phone Trudy to ask if I could return to work and carry on as normal until I went into labor. I don’t see the point of finishing three weeks before the due date; it gives your mind too much freedom to wander onto hazardous terrain. It would be humiliating going back to the office, though, after the disproportionate fuss that was made on my departure. Trudy had wanted to organize a maternity leave send-off at the Thai restaurant across the road, but I told her I’d derive no pleasure from such an event. My intention was to walk out through the swing doors on my last day of work as though it was a normal Friday evening.
I became suspicious when, at five o’clock on the day in question, tables were pushed to one side and bottles of wine appeared from my colleagues’ bags. Contrary to my request, Trudy had planned a surprise drinks party. I smiled politely while she burbled on about how the office would descend into anarchy without me, how they would miss my wry sense of humor, how the baby would have the most efficiently organized life of any baby, ever. There were toasts and numerous gifts, which I was cajoled into opening in front of everyone. Trudy’s gift was a breast pump and a packet of breast pads (“I used to leak milk everywhere in the first few weeks,” she said, much to the obvious disgust of Tom). Tom’s own gift was a Babygro with Straight Outta Compton on the front (“Thought it was your era,” he said with a smirk). Lydia’s confidence-boosting gift was a DVD instructing me how to get my body back in six weeks (“You used to have such a lovely figure”). Inevitably, I was bullied into making a speech myself. I managed to dredge up some seemingly heartfelt words; I’d been to enough of Trudy’s own maternity-leave-dos to know the score.
Once the public mortification had ended, I made my escape. I’m sure no one noticed, just as, despite their declarations to the contrary, no one will notice my absence for the next six months. Annoyingly, I had to bear the far-from-inconsiderable expense of a cab all the way home to Clapham; not only was I grappling with gift bags decorated with various species of baby animal, I also had a large cardboard box under my arm into which were packed my cacti. I didn’t trust any of my colleagues to look after them; no doubt they would drench them, completely disregarding the fact that such plants have evolved to thrive in arid conditions.
* * *
I’d expected the defendants’ surrender to be immediate. As the days passed, however, I began to feel a little less bullish. On the first morning of my maternity leave, I received the two emails I’d been waiting for. I sat in the armchair with my laptop, put my swollen feet up on the casket and opened the first one, from Lawson, Lowe & Co.:
We have taken your brother’s instructions on your recent email and attached documents. Our client freely admits that he has always been fully aware of your mother’s diagnosis, which she asked him not to disclose to any other parties, including family members. We have recently interviewed Mr. Shafiq, your mother’s consultant. He will confirm that, whilst her condition affected some of her day-to-day activities in minor ways, it didn’t affect her ability to understand the extent of her estate, the act of making a will or the claims to which she should give effect. This testimony puts the medical records in context and defeats your claim of lack of mental capacity on the part of your mother.
We are also in the process of drawing up a witness statement by the Reverend Jeremy Withers, who contacted our client to inform him that you are not the biological daughter of Mrs. Green. I note that you have omitted to disclose this fact, despite it being highly relevant to your mother’s reason for making the will. As well as giving evidence about your relationship to Mrs. Green, Reverend Withers will testify to the fact that she was concerned about how our client would cope after her death, particularly in view of their close bond: a further reason for making the will.
In all the circumstances, we have advised our client that he is in a strong position. He will therefore continue to resist your claim robustly.
The second email was from Mr. Brinkworth:
The fact that the medical records show your mother had vascular dementia does nothing to alter my position: it was not incumbent on me to seek medical advice before drafting your mother’s will, because there was nothing in her behavior to suggest that she was not fully aware of what she was doing. Your brother’s solicitors have now informed me of the new evidence that has come to light, from which it is clear that your claim cannot succeed. I am caught in the middle of what amounts to a dispute between your brother and yourself concerning your mother’s true wishes. I would urge you one last time to reach a compromise with him to put an end to these misconceived proceedings.
I reread the two emails. It was as if I’d played a seven-letter word in Scrabble, only to find that my opponent can not only do the same, but can use a triple-word-score square. I hadn’t reckoned on my mother’s own consultant downplaying the impact of her symptoms and attesting to her competence. Neither had I reckoned on my adoption—which I’d thought was known only to the vicar, Aunt Sylvia, Uncle Frank and me—being dragged into the proceedings. I could imagine how Edward must have felt when he was told I was adopted; how he must have chuckled with glee and rubbed his palms together. I’m sure he felt vindicated, not only with regard to my mother’s will, but with regard to everything he’s ever said or done to me.
That bloody vicar. Did he really believe he was behaving ethically by telling Edward, or was he just trying to cause mischief? Either way, it had devastated my case. I thought about what Brigid had told me—“an irrational disposition can rebut the presumption of capacity.” The fact that my mother had appeared to have no reason to favor Edward would have put doubt in the minds of the court concerning her competence to make a will. Now there was a possible reason. For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps my mother’s giving Edward the right to remain in the family home hadn’t, in fact, been an act of dementia-induced irrationality. She’d fully intended to benefit him over me.
I didn’t bother getting dressed that day. I lay on the sofa watching mindless television programs, flicking from channel to channel in an effort to find something to numb my senses. My breath was shallow and my heart was racing. I realized that the focusing of my energies on winning the court case had served to distract me from other, less welcome, thoughts. They started crowding in.
* * *
“And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” That was what the vicar had called to me as I hurried from the vestry. Some verse from the Gospel of John. I beg to differ with the venerable saint. I know the truth now. I know that I was an embarrassing mistake, the outcome of a transitory, meaningless encounter between two people who had no feelings for each other. I know that my biological mother cared so little about me that she was prepared to give me away; that, for the woman who I believed was my mother, I was a consolation prize, a stopgap, just in case a real son or daughter didn’t come along; that I was tricked, fooled, lied-to by my family for my entire childhood, my entire life. And does the truth make me feel free? It does not. I feel imprisoned by it, defined by it. I was never who I believed I was; far from being the protagonist in my own story I’ve simply been a minor character in someone else’s.
* * *
I haven’t left the flat for a week; the spring sunshine seems too bright and the noise from the streets too clamorous. I had my grocery shopping delivered today, so I wouldn’t have to venture
out. Not that I’m eating much. Kate keeps knocking on my door to ask if I’m okay. I tell her I’m worn-out, that the late stages of pregnancy are taking their toll and I need to rest. She’s offered to come and sit with me, but I haven’t let her beyond the front door. I’d rather she didn’t see the flat; I haven’t bothered tidying, or cleaning—or even showering—for days. She doesn’t know I was the product of an affair between my father and aunt, or that I’ve been outplayed in the court case. I don’t want to talk about either, but I can think about nothing else.
Rob’s been bothering me, too, telephoning every day. I’ve told him not to waste his time. I have no news, nothing to say to him. Just the once, he referred to his feelings for me and to the stupid idea of our moving in together. I told him if he mentioned it again I’d stop taking his calls. He says he’ll drop the subject for now. He won’t seem to go away, though. Aunt Sylvia’s been telephoning as well, alternating between landline and mobile. I don’t pick up. In fact, I’m so sick of deleting her answerphone messages that I’ve unplugged the machine. I don’t need it.
I have no idea why Aunt Sylvia’s keen to make contact. The whole pregnancy-and-baby thing must have been such an inconvenience to her. No doubt her main concern, when she was carrying me, was that her figure might be permanently ruined. If she’d kept me, I’d have been nothing more than an embarrassment; I’d have cramped her style and ruined her chances of getting a good husband. I don’t suppose she had a moment’s regret after she handed me over to my mother and father. What a relief it must have been to get back to her single, unencumbered life, free to flirt and flaunt herself. I bet she’s hardly thought about our true relationship since. In fact, knowing how vacuous and self-absorbed she is, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d completely forgotten she gave birth to me until I reminded her.
I’ve been spending a lot of time looking again at the photograph albums I brought back from my mother’s house. The image of my christening—where my mother looks awkward, Aunt Sylvia looks distant, most of the guests look grim—it makes sense now. They were all acting out their parts, going through the motions. The albums contain hardly any other photographs of me as a baby, just a couple of my mother holding me, stiffly, on what looks like a park bench, and one of my father cradling me in his arms. My mother isn’t smiling in either of the pictures. Why not? After all, it was her idea to adopt me. Maybe she found the demands of new-motherhood harder than she’d anticipated, or perhaps she had difficulty bonding with a baby that wasn’t her own. My father, on the other hand, looks almost happy. I expect it was because he’d got away with it. He’d managed to pass on his genes to the next generation, and no blame had attached to him. In fact, he’d have been hailed as a saint for taking on someone else’s child.
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