But as she carefully slides the paper out of the envelope with her thumb and forefinger, a sense of foreboding washes over her. What if this isn’t what she’s looking for at all? Does she really want to find out that her mother hasn’t kept anything of hers, as though she doesn’t matter? As though she doesn’t exist?
She pauses, torn. But she knows she has to find out one way or the other now. The paper feels fragile beneath her fingers, as though it might disintegrate under her touch, and she holds it gently at the edges, careful not to rip it, as she unfolds it and brings it closer to her face to read it in the dim light of the loft.
It’s yellowed round the edges and faded, but it’s clear enough to read; it’s a photocopy of a birth certificate. She reads the name, knowing even before she looks what it’s going to say: Kathryn Susan Wood.
There’s a lump in her throat that she can’t seem to get rid of and she swallows over and over again to try and clear it.
She turns again to look at the things she’s already pulled out of the box, making sure one last time that she hasn’t missed something; that she hasn’t overlooked an envelope full of memories of her birth.
There has to be some sort of explanation for this, for the fact that her mother has kept mementos of her sister’s birth but hasn’t got any record of hers. Perhaps she’s just lost it. Perhaps she keeps it somewhere else, safe, not festering away in the loft.
But there’s something nagging away at the back of her mind, something telling her that there’s more to this. She needs to think, to try and pin it down and work out what it is.
She thinks back to when they were little, her and Kate so close, always together, rarely with anyone else. She thinks about Kate going off travelling round the world, getting married. And then she thinks about her own life; how she and Matt had never bothered to get married, and how she had never even applied for a passport. Both things for which she would have needed a birth certificate.
Something’s swimming to the surface now; she needs to grab hold of it and tether it down. Memories flash into her mind, then disappear, like subliminal messages on TV. Her mother suggesting marriage wasn’t right for her . . . her mother talking about her fear of flying, telling her frightening stories about plane crashes, explosions, hijacks . . . her mother promising to find her birth certificate but never actually finding it . . . watching as Kate flew off to travel the world, her mother telling her she was glad she wasn’t abandoning her, she was staying to look after her . . .
Image after image, memory after memory, flashing through her mind like a film trailer . . . she’s trying to piece them together, work out what her mind is trying to tell her.
But she knows. She knows that, for whatever reason, her mother has never had her birth certificate, and she didn’t want her to find out. It makes sense. She didn’t want her to apply for a passport, so she scared her away from going anywhere. She put her off getting married so she’d never need it for that either.
But why?
She has no idea. But she knows she has to find out.
Suddenly the air in the stuffy loft seems to disappear and Georgie retreats on hands and knees towards the open hatch. She moves quickly now, desperate to get out, her breath coming in gasps.
Down the stairs, into the kitchen she stumbles to unlock the back door with the key hanging from the hook where it’s always been. As the door swings open, cool autumn air hits her full on and she takes deep, rasping breaths, trying to calm her hammering heart and quell the deep ache in her gut.
She crouches down and rocks backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet, staring at the grass between them, the blades pointing proudly towards the sky, uncrushed. Her hand smashes down onto them, then they slowly unfurl again, defiant against all the odds. She smashes them down again and again until they’re totally crushed, lying flat and lifeless against the soft earth.
Unsteadily, Georgie walks across the small lawn, where she and Kate had spent so many hours playing, sunbathing and gossiping. The garden is quiet now, the plants inert, biding their time until spring lets them know it’s time to flower again, time for colour and life. But for now, the palette of the garden is mostly browns, blacks and the dark tones of the evergreens. The shed is grey and lifeless at the end of the garden and she shivers as she remembers her dream, the disturbed earth, the strange feeling she had about it.
Her feet are cold, so she heads back inside the house and sits down at the kitchen table, her head resting on the palms of her hands. She stays there for a few minutes, waiting for her breath to steady, to return to its normal rhythm. Slowly it does and she lifts her head, feeling dizzy.
She can’t believe she’s never thought about any of this before, but she knows it’s because she’s never wanted to. It’s amazing what the mind can block out when it tries. Now, though, the memories have forced their way to the surface, and she can’t deny them any longer. The truth is, her mother has always been covering something up. There’s some mystery, something odd about the way Georgie came into the world.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she pulls it out and squints at the screen. Kate.
We’re just leaving, we’ll be back in 20 mins or so. Hope you found what you were looking for. K xx
Oh God, they’re on their way back. She doesn’t have a clue whether her mother ever goes into these boxes any more, but she needs to tidy everything up, make it look as though she’s never been here. She stands and walks back up the stairs, more slowly this time, and climbs the steps to the hatch. Her phone torch lights her way again as she walks to the back of the loft where the papers and envelopes are scattered just where she left them.
Trying to stay calm, she scoops everything up and shoves it roughly back into the metal box, then pushes the cardboard box back into the dark depths of the loft where she found it. Everything else is pushed back into place: the boxes, the suitcases, before Georgie stands back and admires her handiwork. It certainly looks just the same as when she found it. Before she knew the secrets the loft was hiding.
She makes her way back down the steps, folds them back up and closes the loft hatch with a gentle click, then glances at her phone. Ten minutes to go. It’s probably not a good idea to hang around and speak to her mum, or Kate. What could she say to either of them right now? Especially her mother. She needs to find out more first.
It only takes a moment to tap out a reply to her sister.
Thanks. All done. Will see you later. G x
She watches the message send then goes back to the kitchen and locks the back door; she puts her boots back on, pulls her coat over her shoulders and, without even a backward glance, opens the front door, slamming it hard behind her as she walks away from the house as quickly as possible.
As she walks she realizes her whole body is tense, and she takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. She ups her pace, walking briskly in the cool air until her breath comes in puffs and her legs ache. It’s only a sheet of paper and a tiny piece of plastic, but she can’t stop thinking about the implications of what she found – and, more importantly, what she didn’t find – up in her mother’s loft.
She has no idea what it means and she’s not entirely sure she wants to discover the truth. But there’s no choice.
The wheels are in motion now.
3
25 October 2016
Georgie’s been watching the same spider scuttle slowly backwards and forwards across the floor for fifteen minutes and she still can’t bring herself to move from her position at the kitchen table.
When she got back from her mother’s house yesterday afternoon she was all fired up and ready to find out more, to try and discover the secret her mother was clearly keeping from her. Now, though, she feels almost crippled with inertia, as though the fear of what she might find has left her limbs paralysed.
She pulls air in through her nose and holds her breath until her head starts to spin. She lets it seep out slowly through her lips, her lungs burning. As the last dro
p of breath leaves her, the spider finally runs underneath the skirting board and she gasps, her lungs desperate for air.
‘How come you’re so out of breath? Been Mum-dancing along to the radio again?’ The voice of her daughter Clementine cuts through her reverie and she snaps her head up. Clem is standing at the worktop now, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a box of Shreddies, pouring them into a bowl. Georgie sees her as though from miles away, through a murky film, her mind still elsewhere. She watches her daughter as she pours milk into the bowl, gets a spoon from the draining board and walks across the room to the table, where she sits down next to her, scooping spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth, chewing quickly.
Georgie realizes Clem’s looking at her strangely and smiles, remembering she’s meant to be answering her question.
‘Oh, I’m not out of breath, I’m just – sitting here.’
The spoon rattles against the side of the bowl as Clem scoops up another pile of Shreddies. Then it stops, hovering in the air between the bowl and her mouth.
‘Mum, are you OK? You look weird.’
‘Yes, yes. Sorry, darling, I was miles away. Don’t know what I was thinking about.’ She stands, the chair beneath her scraping across the lino floor and almost tipping over. There are drops of milk on the wooden tabletop and she reaches for a cloth and starts to wipe them away absent-mindedly. ‘Anyway, what are you up to today?’
‘Er, I’m going to school?’ Clem screws up her face in disdain. ‘What did you think I was doing?’
‘Ha ha, yes, of course you are. But I meant what have you got on?’
Clem shrugs. ‘Just the usual. Maths. Boring. English. PE. Gross. Why do we have to do PE? It’s so degrading.’
‘What’s degrading?’ Matt’s come into the room, pulling his jacket on and running his fingers through his unruly hair.
‘Oh, Clem’s just telling me how it’s unfair that they have to keep fit at school and that she thinks she should be allowed to be a lady and sit it out.’
Matt smiles, ruffling Clem’s hair as he passes. ‘Daaad! I’ve just spent ages doing my hair.’
Georgie and Matt stare at their daughter, this strange creature who’s suddenly turned from a sweet little girl into a demanding, preening almost-teen, her hair wild around her face, piled into a scruffy knot on the top of her head, and both let out bursts of laughter at the same time.
‘What?’ Clem’s voice is indignant.
‘Nothing, darling. Your hair looks lovely.’ Matt grins at Georgie as he sits down with a cup of coffee and she smiles weakly back. His forehead creases.
‘What’s up? You look – sad.’ He slurps from his cup and puts it down in front of him.
‘Mum’s being really weird this morning,’ Clementine says, flicking a stray hair from her shoulder.
‘Oh? Weirder than usual?’
‘Way weirder. She’s been staring at me like I’m from another planet and she forgot I was going to school today. Like I’m ever allowed to do anything else.’
Matt looks at Georgie and she shrugs. ‘I’m just tired, I guess.’
Matt nods. ‘Not surprised, you kept me awake most of the night with your fidgeting. What were you dreaming about, anyway?’
Georgie shrugs again, aware she’s not being very friendly. It wasn’t what she was dreaming about that was the problem. It was the fact that the thoughts rolling around in her head, about what her mother might be hiding, were keeping her awake.
While these thoughts are in her own head, though, they can’t hurt her. Once she says them out loud, they become real.
Matt looks at his watch, distracted. ‘I have to leave in a minute. Do either of you need a lift?’
Clem shakes her head. ‘Josie’s calling for me.’
Georgie shakes her head too. ‘I’m not going into work today. I’ve called in sick. I’m—’ She pauses, unsure how to explain why she’s taken the day off from her job at their local library, a job she loves. ‘You were right. I didn’t have a great night. I just need to catch up on some sleep.’
Matt frowns at her and she knows he’s worried about what’s going on. And she will tell him, of course she will. Once she discovers whether there’s even anything to tell.
‘Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?’
Georgie nods. ‘Positive.’
‘OK.’ She knows Matt’s not convinced by her story at all, but there’s nothing she can do about it right now. She watches as he stands and walks to the sink, rinses his cup and places it upside down on the draining board. She watches the way he moves, the fluid, gentle way his body switches from one position to the next. She watches the curve of his cheekbone, the sprinkle of stubble on his chin which by the end of the day will be more of a beard, softer to the touch, and his hair which he’s tried to flatten with water but which always sticks up wildly no matter what he does. She watches his shoulders rise and fall as they shrug themselves into his coat, and his hands as they reach for his keys, dropping them into his pocket, and she feels a surge of love for him that threatens to overwhelm her. She mustn’t start crying, not now. She blinks and clears her throat, then looks up to find Matt’s face level with hers.
He leans forward and plants a kiss on the end of her nose. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You look pale.’
Georgie nods and Matt’s eyes lock with hers a moment longer before he gives a quick nod, then stands and moves to kiss Clementine on the cheek. ‘Bye, squirt, have a good day.’
‘Bye, Dad.’
And then he moves to the door, closes it gently behind him, and is gone. Georgie feels grateful that he didn’t push it. What could she have told him? ‘Oh, I just found Kate’s birth certificate and hospital wristband in Mum’s loft but mine wasn’t there and now I’m convinced there’s something sinister going on’? Said like that it sounds crazy, unhinged. Who in their right mind wouldn’t just assume that it was elsewhere, stored in another cupboard, another box, rather than jumping to wild conclusions? And despite what Matt knows about her family – and he’s been around long enough – she knows he wouldn’t have understood, not really.
A few minutes later Clem leaves in a flurry and the house is quiet, the only sounds the roar from the boiler, the gentle hum of the dishwasher and the odd rumble of tyres as cars drive slowly past outside the kitchen window. Georgie knows she needs to move, to do something; she can’t sit here all day. There wasn’t anything else in her mother’s house, she’s pretty sure of that, because she would have found it, somewhere. And she can’t do an Internet search because, quite frankly, what would she be searching for?
So she’s decided the library is the best place to start. She knows libraries, she understands them, the secrets that they hold and how to coax them out from their hiding places gently and with care. But the local library where she works is off limits – not only because she’s called in sick, but because she needs more than it can offer her. She needs newspaper records dating back years.
This is going to be a long search.
The drive doesn’t take long and just twenty minutes later she’s parked the car and is walking briskly towards the library and through the sliding glass doors.
She loves working in her little local library, but this one, in Norwich city centre, is completely different. It’s busy, with people milling around the ground floor, pushing buggies, reading stories aloud. It makes her feel safe, secure. Nothing bad could ever happen here, could it?
She makes her way up to the research department on the second floor, taking the stairs instead of the lift. It’s almost empty when she gets there, and she heads to the bank of grey filing cabinets lined up along the wall like sentries, keeping a careful watch. It’s quieter up here, the atmosphere hushed, more serious, and she’s conscious of her footsteps across the thin grey carpet. She takes a pad of paper and a pen from her bag and shoves the bag in a locker, then pushes the metal gate open and heads towards the filing cabinets. On top of each one is a printed list in a plastic stand, with dates o
f the births, deaths and marriages contained within. Finally she reaches 1979 and stops. The year she was born. Hopefully this will be easy – she’ll find her birth details, get a copy of her birth certificate, and go home and nothing will have changed.
The drawer slides open, as it has countless times before, and Georgie flicks through the dates until she finds the right microfiche. She walks to the machine, loads it in as she’s done so many times for other people, and scrolls through the pages until she reaches the right date – 23 November 1979 – where she slows down, reading the names of the people born in Norwich on that date. Names flash up in front of her eyes but none of them are hers. She pauses when she sees two born on the same day with the same surname – Foster. Twins, she thinks, and gives a smile before moving on. But then her birthday has gone and it’s the next day, and the day after that, and there’s no sign of a Georgina Wood. She frowns, and checks the front of the cassette case she took this from. Yes, it’s definitely the right date and the right place.
So why isn’t she listed here?
There will be a simple explanation. Her hands shake as she returns the microfiche to its case, then places it carefully back in the drawer and closes it with a quiet shush. She takes a deep breath and then moves along to where the newspapers are archived. She’s not really sure what she’s looking for, but maybe there will be something that might give her a clue about what’s going on. At the very least it’s got to be worth a go.
She scans the dates of the Eastern Daily Press until she comes to 1979 again, then stops. This seems like a good place to start.
As she pulls the drawer open she tries to keep her hands steady, takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders. She flicks through to the film that covers November, the month she was born in, pulls it from its slot and heads back to the same microfiche machine. It’s just as well she knows what she’s doing; it makes the task less daunting as she slips the film onto the wheel and winds it onto the one next to it. She turns the switch and the screen lights up, then she winds the film on noisily until the front page of a newspaper appears on the screen. The papers scroll by one by one, revealing inconsequential stories about sport competitions and a strike at a printing factory, and all the while the sound of her heart roars in her ears, getting louder and louder the closer she gets to the date she’s looking for, her eyes scanning greedily over the blurry black words until she feels dizzy.
The Mother's Secret Page 4