The Mother's Secret

by Clare Swatman

  It became a way of life in our house and, whether they liked it or not, it was the girls’ world.

  Because I knew I was always going to keep my promise to keep them safe. To protect them from harm. I vowed I would never let them go. Never.

  And even though I’ve thought about Kimberley from time to time, about what I put her through, I have to be honest and say that when it came down to it, I didn’t really care. I didn’t know her, so I didn’t care. Not really.

  And so I can’t honestly say I’ve ever truly regretted what I did. How could I? I have Georgie to show for it. And even if she finds out the truth and never forgives me for what I’ve done, I know she’ll always love me, deep down. And I’ll love her too. Forever.

  And love is all that matters.

  Part Three

  Georgie

  12

  28–30 October 2016

  The house is quiet; Matt’s at work, Clem’s at school, and Georgie’s called in sick to work again, something she hates doing. But she can’t wait any longer. She needs to get started, to be doing something.

  She perches at the dining table and opens up the laptop, then stops for a moment, staring at the blank screen. Next to her sits the pile of cuttings she’s read through so many times. The black-and-white photo of the poor bereaved woman staring out from the top one has jagged white lines all across it where it’s been folded, screwed up and flattened out again, making her gaze seem less penetrating than it had before. But she can still see the sadness in the eyes, even through all of that.

  She smooths the paper down and reads it again, even though she knows it almost off by heart.

  A newborn baby girl was snatched from Norwich maternity hospital last night.

  The baby, who had only that morning been named Louisa by her distraught mother, Kimberley Foster, was taken from her crib at the end of her mother’s bed in the Norfolk and Norwich maternity hospital between the hours of 1630 and 1700 hrs yesterday afternoon. Her other child, twin Samuel, was left alone in his crib.

  Her other child, twin Samuel.

  She has a twin.

  In all the horror of her discovery, this was the one thing that hadn’t really sunk in, until now, despite her words to Aunty Sandy yesterday.

  She’s a twin.

  She stands and walks across to the fireplace and gazes at her reflection in the mirror above it. She studies her dark hair, so unlike her mother’s; the wide green eyes, the narrow snub nose, the high cheekbones. The little dimple in her cheeks when she smiles. Her mother has none of these and, in the one photo of her father she’s familiar with, neither does he, apart from the dark hair. But, with no reason to question any of it, she never has.

  Until now.

  She traces the outline of her lips, and tries to imagine someone else out there who – not looks like her, because he’s a boy: a man – but just someone who fits better. Someone she’s just more like. The idea makes her head spin.

  She sits back down at the table and takes a deep breath. She’s going in.

  She opens up Google, the most obvious starting point. She could go to the library and see what else she can find in the newspaper archives. But she’d need to travel into Norwich so this is the easier, more obvious place to start, with just a name and a forty-year-old address.

  Her hands shaking, she types in ‘Kimberley Foster’ and ‘Colindale Avenue, Sprowston’.

  Less than a second later there are hundreds of thousands of results in front of her, and she swallows. She’s not expecting to have any luck – who knows what Kimberley’s name is now, or even whether she’s still alive? But she has to start somewhere.

  She begins at the top of the list, her eyes skimming the results quickly, dismissing most of them. One catches her eye, a Kimberley Foster who works at the local college, teaching English to adults. But when she clicks on her photo she can see she’s far too young, even younger than herself.

  She scrolls down, her eyes searching for clues, scanning pictures for the same sad, empty eyes from the hazy picture in front of her, even though she’s not sure she’d recognize her now anyway. But there’s nothing.

  After half an hour or so of scrolling through the results she stops and rubs her face. Her eyes ache and she’s no further forward in her search. There’s no Kimberley Foster anywhere near or around Norwich: at least not one who’s done anything to turn up on Google. She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. She’s tried Facebook, but nothing there either.

  She sighs. Google was worth a shot, but she’s afraid she’s going to end up going in ever-decreasing circles. She’s going to have to try something else. Maybe if she had some more information about the family that would help? Maybe she could look for her father instead, try and find him?

  She riffles through her papers until she comes to the one where her father was mentioned. She reads it again. Her parents had had a fling, nothing more. It doesn’t seem likely that he’d still be involved in the family’s lives, but it has to be worth a shot. She digs out the newspaper story: Barry Thomson, the twins’ estranged father, and carefully types in ‘Barry Thomson, Norwich’. Once again thousands of entries fill the screen, but a cursory glance reveals none is the Barry Thomson she’s looking for. Or at least, if they are, there’s no way of telling.

  She sighs heavily and sits back in her chair, the light from the laptop giving the room an eerie glow. It had been worth a shot, but it was what she’d expected. Now, she needs to do more.

  It’s time for action.

  It’s time to go and knock on some doors.

  It’s still early but it’s already starting to get dark by the time she pulls into Colindale Avenue, and she can hardly make anything out in the semi-darkness through the wildly whipping windscreen wipers. She pulls into a tiny space and cuts the engine, peering out through the rain-streaked windows at the street beyond. It’s narrow, cars parked along both sides, the houses small but mostly neat, lined up like soldiers into the distance. She squints to read the number of the house next to her but it’s impossible. She pulls her hood tightly round her ears, opens the door and steps into the pouring rain. She’s not sure what she’s going to achieve, but she’s here now. She peers more closely at the house number next to her and, just as she makes out the number 38, she notices a movement at the window and someone glares at her before angrily pulling the curtains shut. She takes a step back and looks up and down the street. It’s longer than she’d hoped and she’s not sure where to start. Can she really go and knock on doors at random and ask if they know a woman who lived here almost forty years ago? And what will she do if they say yes? She can hardly introduce herself to Kimberley as her daughter, not after all this time.

  And yet.

  She has to do something, now she’s here.

  Before she can think about it any more she’s marching up a short path and ringing the doorbell. Water drips down her forehead and into her eyes and she brushes it away impatiently. Moments later a light flicks on behind the glass panels and a short older man opens the door, pushing his glasses up on his nose. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, um, hello. I – I’m looking for someone who used to live here and wondered if you might know them.’

  ‘Here? I doubt it, I’ve been here for thirty years.’ He pushes his glasses up on his nose again and peers at her over the top of them.

  ‘Well, actually, it was longer ago than that. It was—’ She stops, unsure what to say. ‘It was almost forty years ago.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He clicks his teeth together and waits.

  ‘Her name was Kimberley Foster. She would have been about seventeen, back then. So late fifties now.’

  He shakes his head briefly. ‘No, I’ve never heard of her. I’m sorry.’

  He goes to close the door but Georgie’s not done yet. ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who might know her?’

  He pulls the door open again and sighs. ‘No, I don’t. I’m very sorry, young lady, but I don’t think I can help you.’


  The door closes firmly in her face and she steps back out from under the porch into the rain. She’s soaked within seconds as it pours from her hair down her neck and drips off the end of her nose. She stands at the end of the path and looks up and down the street again, hoping for inspiration. Knocking on every door will take her all night and most of tomorrow. Maybe she’ll try ten more, then give up, for today.

  She knocks on the next door along, and then the next, and the next. There’s a real mix of people and some just slam the door in her face straight away. Some are renting, some are young, some are out, leaving her standing hammering on an unopened door, while others are interested but just can’t help. And before she knows it she’s knocked on ten doors and has absolutely no more information than she had before she started. She glances at her watch. She’s only been going half an hour. She’s soaked through and is aware she must look a bit mad standing out in the rain.

  It’s only 4.30 but it’s almost dark. People will be getting home from work soon. Maybe she should try for a bit longer.

  And so she carries on knocking on doors, getting nowhere but unable to give up until she feels she’s given it her best shot. After all, what’s she going to do once she’s driven away from this road? This is her best chance of finding her mother, and even if it’s not the right way to go about it, she can’t give it up, not yet.

  She’s almost at the end of the street, at number 182. Her feet ache and she’s ignored her phone several times, cutting off calls from Clem and Matt. She doesn’t want to tell them where she is, not until she’s home and in the dry and not feeling quite so desperate. She lifts the door knocker and lets it fall against the peeling paint of the wooden door a couple of times then stands back slightly to wait, listening to the rain hammering on the porch roof above her head. A moment or two passes and all’s quiet inside. She’s about to give up and walk back down the short path and on to the next house when there’s a jingling sound from the other side of the door, of chains being undone and keys being turned. She stops and waits and a few seconds later a small white face appears in the narrow black crack of the open door. The face is chiselled with deep valleys of wrinkles and surrounded by a frizz of grey hair, the eyes buried deep, peering at Georgie standing in the semi-darkness. She doesn’t speak, just keeps her gaze trained on her. It’s disconcerting.

  ‘Hello, I, er, I was wondering if you could help me. I’m – um, looking for someone.’ She clears her throat. ‘A woman who lived on this road about forty years ago. Kimberley Foster.’

  Georgie lets the question hang in the air. She’s not sure whether the woman has even heard her and the silence stretches out, broken only by the sound of cars creeping slowly along the road, their tyres swooshing through puddles. Georgie’s about to repeat the name, when the woman speaks.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I knew her.’ She keeps the door open only a crack and says no more. Georgie has to grab hold of the door frame to stop herself falling over as the whole world tips on its axis.

  ‘Did you?’ Her voice is a squeak and she clears her throat again. ‘Wh-when? Do you know her now?’

  The old woman shakes her head and Georgie feels her heart crash to the floor. ‘No, not any more. She moved a long time ago. But she lived just there—’ Her arm comes out from behind the door and flaps vaguely across the street. ‘Number 181. Lovely girl. Terrible what happened to her, though.’

  Georgie looks across the street to the house opposite, which looks almost the same as this one but smarter, well looked after. Lights shine brightly in the window and she tries to make out the people inside as though it will give her a clue to the hidden secrets of the house’s past.

  She turns back and tries to keep her voice steady while her head spins. ‘So, do you know any more about her? Where she went? Where she is now?’

  The old woman shakes her head. ‘No, not really. I just knew her and her mother and her little one. Lovely little boy, Sam, his name was, always used to come round for biscuits when his mum was having one of her episodes – ’ she made the speech mark sign in the air with her fingers as she said the word – ‘but they moved away when he was about ten. Shame, really, I used to like having him round to play; he livened the place up a bit, you know.’ She sighs. ‘But after what happened, her little girl being taken and all, she was never the same, really.’ She looks up at Georgie, the lines between her eyes even deeper than before. ‘Why do you want to know about them, anyway? Who are you?’

  Georgie swallows, her throat scratchy. ‘I’m, er, just an old friend. Well, my mum was, you know, a friend of Kimberley’s. I just – I thought it would be nice to find her, as a surprise . . . ’ She trails off, unable to lie any more, unwilling to think about the consequences of what her mother has done, and of what she herself is doing now. Is she about to tear someone’s life apart?

  ‘Oh, right.’ The old woman’s eyes narrow even further. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that.’

  Georgie swallows down the disappointment. Her hopes had soared as, just for a moment, she’d thought this little old lady was going to be the key to unlocking her past. But now those hopes are shattered again, scattered like confetti across the doorstep. She gives it one last shot. ‘I don’t suppose you know where they moved to, do you?’

  The old woman closes her eyes and Georgie wonders if she’s forgotten she’s there. But then she snaps them open again, and a smile spreads across her face. ‘Round Mile End way, I think. Or at least that’s where they went for a bit. Woodcock Street. They went together, all three of them, Samuel, Kim and Margaret, her mum’s name was. Never really liked her, abrupt woman, never gave you the time of day. But she looked after them all right, the two of them, so I suppose she can’t have been all bad.’ She shrugs and looks at Georgie. ‘Sorry I can’t help you any more than that.’

  Once again, Georgie lets her hopes lift just a little. It might be an old lead, but at least it’s a lead, somewhere to start. ‘That’s OK. You’ve been really helpful, thank you so much.’

  ‘Give my love to them, won’t you, if you do find them? Mrs Moore. Hazel. They’ll remember me, I’m sure.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’

  The door closes with a soft clunk and Georgie stands there a moment staring at it as though it’s going to offer up more clues. Then she turns and walks back to the car and drives home, her mind racing with the information she’s just gained. She’s desperate to go and find this street, to knock on the doors and continue her search, see where it takes her. But it’s dark now, and she needs to get home to her family. Her search for her other family is going to have to wait until tomorrow.

  ‘Earth to Mum?’

  Clem’s voice breaks into her reverie and Georgie stares at her daughter as though she’s surprised to see her there.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I was miles away.’

  Clementine pouts and flops her lanky body into a dining-room chair, splashing tea on the tabletop which she wipes away with her sleeve. Georgie watches without comment. She has too much on her mind to worry about tea stains.

  She feels annoyed and impatient. She had such a successful day yesterday in her search, but she was frustrated that time had run out. When she got home all she’d wanted to do was go straight back out and knock on doors. But she’d been so tired that she’d just had a bath then sat down to eat dinner with Matt and Clem. She hardly spoke a word, the exhaustion washing over her in waves as she twirled her spaghetti mindlessly round her fork.

  It wasn’t until later, when Clem had taken herself off to her room to do her homework, that she’d had a chance to tell Matt everything she’d discovered.

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ Matt had asked.

  ‘I’m going to try and find them tomorrow, in that road.’

  ‘But you don’t know if that’s where they still are.’ Matt’s voice was gentle but firm. ‘It’s a long time since they moved there, you know. A lot can change in that time.’

  ‘I know, but at the moment
it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I’m just worried, George. I don’t want you to get your hopes up too much. But also—’ He stopped, concern etched into his face. He sighed, rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘I mean, what if you do find your birth mother? What’s going to happen then? What – what if she doesn’t want to be found now? Or what if she does, but she can’t cope with you just walking into her life? You could end up causing more problems than you solve.’

  She sighed heavily.

  ‘I know. I’ve thought about that, I have. And I am worried. But I can’t see any other way of doing it.’ She took a gulp of her wine. ‘I keep thinking about how I’d react if it was me, if someone just walked into my life after almost forty years, and I just can’t picture it, Matt. But I have to find her. Don’t I?’

  Matt nodded. ‘I guess you do.’ He took hold of her hand and squeezed it urgently. ‘Promise me something, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t take any risks. I know these people are your family, but – well, you don’t know a single thing about them. They might be lovely but they might be – well, just be careful. This is a massive thing for them and they’re not expecting it. Kimberley might have moved on with her life, and not want to know you. You need to be prepared for that.’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice was small.

  ‘So promise me you’ll be careful?’

  Georgie nodded. ‘I promise.’

  Later, as they’d sat down to watch TV, the pictures flicking over Georgie without her seeing them, her phone had beeped. It was a message from Kate. Georgie frowned. They hadn’t spoken since she’d told Kate she was looking for her family, and she hadn’t expected to hear from her yet. She clicked the message open.

  I’m really worried about Mum. Things not good. Doctor is coming to see her tomorrow at 12pm. Would appreciate you being there too. Kate

  There was no kiss, no ‘Love Kate’, and the uncharacteristic abruptness of the message made Georgie’s eyes prick with tears. She knew whatever she found was going to hurt her sister, and she wished she didn’t have to choose between the two. But she didn’t have any choice. She couldn’t live the rest of her life not knowing who her real family were.