Jessie put her hand below her pregnant belly. ‘I’m going to have to find the Ladies again.’ She winced. ‘It’s such a pain.’
‘I think I saw one just before the tearooms.’
‘Good. I shan’t be long. Hopefully the tea will have arrived by the time I’m back.’
‘I expect there’s a wait with all these people.’ Liz looked around at the crowded tearoom again: still no sign of their tea.
‘Try and cheer up a bit while I’m away. You’ve such a long face.’ Jessie was gone before Liz had time to reply.
Cheer up? Impossible, under the circumstances.
It was unfair, she knew, to burden Jessie with her in such a mood. But she would have been worse if she’d stayed at home. Steven just didn’t understand.
‘What does it matter?’ he’d say. ‘No one’s going to care.’
‘But I care. It would be terrible if Richard or Jessie found out.’
For thirty-six years, the secret had remained in its closet. With time, it had faded in its intensity; eventually she had been able to get through days at a time without thinking about it. For years now she’d been fine, had focused on her family, on ensuring they had a good upbringing, had filled the tins with baking, knitted sweaters, supervised homework and music practice. And when the children had grown up and left home, she’d kept the tins full for Steven, helped him with his photography, sewn for his operatic society productions, got a part-time job in the local bookstore. She’d kept herself busy and had almost forgotten about Katharine. Almost.
Occasionally she’d look at Jessie and wonder if she would look like her. Sometimes at home she wondered if she might pass her in the street, if she would recognise her, if she would look familiar, or would she just keep walking by without realising?
Did she have a good life? Would she have had a better life if Liz had been allowed to keep her?
And now, would Katharine try to track her down, now that the law was about to change?
She was adamant that the secret remain locked away forever; she couldn’t bear to relive the shame.
But how could she be sure? Her past could come knocking at the door. Everything could change in the stroke of a parliamentarian’s pen.
She still had the newspaper clipping in her wallet, but she didn’t need to read it to see what it said; she knew it by heart.
‘ADOPTION LAW REFORM’ the heading said.
‘A Bill before Parliament proposes a change to New Zealand’s adoption laws,’ it went on to say. ‘If passed, the new law would give adopted children the right to trace their birth parents, and parents to find their children. The Bill is expected to go before Parliament before the end of the year.’
The newspaper article went on to quote various politicians about whether the law change was a good idea, and the effect it would have on adopted children and the women who had given them up for adoption twenty or more years ago.
But it was the comment from one of the Adoption Law Reform spokeswomen that was closest to the bone. She pulled the well-thumbed clipping out from the back pouch in her wallet and read it again: ‘At last, adoptees like us will be able to find out where we come from. The question ‘Who am I?’ we have been asking all our lives will at last be answered’.
Liz rubbed her forehead distractedly. A law change was the last thing she wanted. What if her daughter decided she wanted to make contact? What if she turned up unannounced on the doorstep one day? It would be a disaster; it would bring it all back again, that terrible time after the baby had been stolen away, with only a lock of hair to remind her. Unconsciously, she touched the silver locket around her neck. She had worn it for thirty-six years, only taking it off to go swimming for fear of losing it in the sea. She’d never told anyone what was in it, or even that it had a clasp; it remained the only tangible reminder of the past and she wanted it to stay that way.
She knew she’d been different since she’d read that newspaper article, but she couldn’t help herself. She was terrified. She found it hard to talk to people, even to Steven; she found it hard to get up in the morning. Fleeing to London had been the only way to escape the consequences of the law-change.
‘Here you are, madam, your tea.’ The waitress delivered a silver tray with silver teapot and hot water jug, china cups and saucers, scones, cream and jam, all on china plates covered in lush red painted roses.
Liz slipped the newspaper clipping back in her wallet and dropped it in her bag before Jessie came back then turned her attention to afternoon tea. How grand! She could pretend, for a few moments anyway, to be a real lady, taking tea in Harrods.
Jessie insisted on paying for the taxi home. ‘We earn plenty, Mum, you don’t have to worry. Besides, the New Zealand dollar is only about a third of the pound. Save your money for a sightseeing trip.’
The cab delivered them outside Jessie’s compact flat, located at the top of a three-storey brick row in St John’s Wood, with Liz carrying a green and gold Harrods Food Hall bag bearing the ingredients for a special dinner – fresh pasta, which she’d never seen before, mushrooms, bacon, spring onions and a ready-made sauce. If she hadn’t had Jessie to take her by the arm, she’d probably still be there, such was the magnificence and bounty all around her - so many different meats, row upon row of whole fish, prawns, shellfish, vegetables and fruit, many of them unknown at home. She’d had no idea so many cheeses existed; at home, she and Steven had only recently ventured from colby to edam but here there had been hundreds of varieties, some soft and runny, some with mould, some with big red and yellow rinds. Jessie had bought a selection for after dinner.
There was very little preparation needed for the dinner so Liz accepted a glass of chablis from Michael, who was home from his commute to the new Docklands development where his computer firm was based.
Liz didn’t understand computers but Michael said they were the future. He’d tried to explain it to her last night on the heavy little flat box he had at home, but try as she might, it was beyond her, all those code words and blinking white ‘curses’, as he called them, on the screen. She couldn’t see the point.
‘And for you, Jessie, a ginger ale again?’
Jessie nodded, yes. ‘They seem to help my digestion.’
Liz sipped the chablis and tried not to pull a face. It was much drier than the sweeter wines like Blenheimer she’d been used to at home. She nursed the glass and hoped he wouldn’t notice her not drinking much of it. She felt his opinion of her was already low enough. Perhaps he thought her a bit dull?
She had to admit she wasn’t her usual lively self, even though she’d tried to pass it off to Jessie in the tearooms as a bit of homesickness.
Her son-in-law was an unusual fellow she thought as she watched him holding up the wine bottle, reading the label, twisting and turning it against the light bulb before recorking it painstakingly. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see him stroking it. A bit of a fusspot, Michael Pearson, and a bit up himself, really, no doubt due to his excessive Englishness – he came from a family somewhere north of St John’s Wood who were extremely well off and had sent him to one of those plummy public schools where he’d learned how to speak like the Queen and affect a reticence that must surely drive her daughter crazy. Although, to be fair, Jessie was so gregarious, she’d fill any conversation gaps without anyone noticing his silence.
They were dead opposites, the two of them. She was tiny, dark, vivacious, colourful, eccentric at times, especially the way she dressed. He was tall, fair, almost pasty, and more than a little pudgy from sitting at a computer all day and being too fond of his food. His receding chin was covered by a beard that was blond but verging on light auburn and he peered at everyone through glasses so thick they could have come from the bottom of a lemonade bottle.
‘Mum, you’re not listening.’
‘Sorry, dear. I was miles away.’
‘We were talking about naming the baby.’
‘Oh. Have you got a name already?’
; ‘We’re not settled on one yet. We’ve got several we like though.’
‘I can’t understand how you already know it’s a girl.’
‘We were thinking of Katherine. Or Katie.’
Liz’s heart missed a beat. Did Jessie know?
‘But we also like Madeline, Alice and Emily.’
‘They’re all nice dear,’ she said.
Choosing Jessie’s name had been easy. There’d never been any doubt in her mind and Steven had been quite happy with Jessica, which had immediately been shortened to Jessie and sometimes Jess. She’d often wanted to tell her about her namesake, the nineteen-year-old doctor-in-training who’d had to take enforced time out at Fitzgibbon House. Jessie had done just what she said she’d do – be a doctor. Not like herself, who’d thrown away her chances after just a short time in the draughtsman’s office. She’d handed in her notice before she’d married Steven. Without a career of her own, Liz had always felt as if she had a share in Jessie’s success when she went on to be a paediatrician. Even though they hadn’t kept in touch as promised, she’d seen Jessie on the television at home a lot lately for her work preventing cot death. She often thought her daughter would be quite proud to be associated with Jessie the paediatrician, but she’d never be able to tell her.
~ ~ ~
The next day, Jessie squeezed behind the wheel and drove to the Kensington High Street art gallery she managed, Liz coming along reluctantly for the ride.
‘I won’t know a soul,’ she’d protested when Jessie insisted she find something to wear.
‘I’ll look after you. Besides, I need you near me in case something happens.’
‘What? You’re not …’
‘Only joking. I’m fine. There’s over a week to go yet. I reckon this baby’s determined to hang in there right to the end.’
So Liz had pulled out her black pants, black top and checked jacket, doing her best to emulate her fashion-conscious daughter and knowing she’d failed miserably. Even adding Jessie’s red and black jet beads didn’t make her feel anything better than dowdy.
Jessie emerged from her room a fully fledged arty type in flowing black pants, a floaty black top that draped nicely over her bump, and a loose peacock blue jacket covered in brightly coloured patterns of tiny flowers and flying birds. The striking ensemble was completed with a little black beret jammed down over her hair, which was dyed a conspicuous bright red and permed. She’d said it was the start of a new trend, but Liz couldn’t understand it. Jessie had spent her teenage years trying to straighten her lovely, thick, curly brown hair and now she’d paid a lot of money to have it ten times as curly. At least she’d stopped wearing the high-heeled black boots Liz had seen poking out of her wardrobe.
Liz had her bag under her arm, ready to go.
Jessie looked her up and down. ‘You can’t go like that, Mum. What’s come over you? You always used to look so smart.’
‘I didn’t bring my going-out clothes. I didn’t think I’d be going to parties.’
‘Come into my room. I’ll find you something.’ Jessie beckoned her to follow her into the bedroom where she started to rummage in her drawers, pulling out bangles and beads then in her wardrobe, holding out hanger after hanger of tops and jackets until she found something that appealed.
‘Here, try these on.’ She thrust the hanger and jewellery at Liz. ‘They should look good on you.’
Liz did as she was told, reluctantly slipped off her jacket and pulled the heavily patterned multi-coloured tunic over her fitted black polo-neck.
‘No, don’t look in the mirror yet.’ Jessie took her mother by the arms and guided her away from the dressing table then proceeded to drape necklaces around her. ‘Now, put these on.’ She handed Liz several brightly coloured bangles. ‘You need lipstick to match.’ Jessie picked a silver tube off the dresser and painted her mother’s lips. ‘Now, your hair. Hmm.’ She grabbed a red velvet pillbox hat, thrust it on Liz’s head and stood back, smiling. ‘That’s better. Now you can look in the mirror.’
Liz didn’t recognise herself. Staring back at her was an unfamiliar creature almost as exotic as her daughter, with bright red lips and the Bohemian appearance of some of the women who performed in Steven’s operatic productions. She could feel her shoulders lift, her depression fall away.
‘That’s better. More like the old Mum.’
‘But Jessie, I’ve never dressed like this.’
‘Never too late to start Mum. You look just the part.’
Liz did feel like she was playing a part. In Jessie’s car, she pretended she was sitting in a Rolls Royce on the way to a premiere, not cooped up in a Mini.
‘Damn, it’s all double yellow lines in this street,’ Jessie said as she drove round the block somewhere in the West End. ‘You’d think there’d be a park somewhere this late in the afternoon. People should be starting to go home.’
The car swerved suddenly to the left. ‘Thank God, a park at last,’ she said, manoeuvring the Mini into the tiny space. ‘If this car was any bigger, I wouldn’t have fitted.’
‘You’ll have to think about a bigger one when the baby’s here,’ Liz said.
They made their way along back streets to Kensington High Street and through the open doors of the brightly lit Beaufort Gallery.
‘Goodness, Jessie, all these stairs,’ Liz said as they climbed to the second floor, trying to balance a glass of wine in one hand while clutching the staircase with the other. ‘How on earth did you get up these every day at eight months?’
‘The exercise was good for me.’ She laughed.
‘And those huge canvases. I hope you weren’t expected to heave them around.’
The art on the walls looked very drab, as if someone had dragged a line of white canvases through a mud puddle and swirled the mud and dirt around in stripes and circles. The people inspecting the art were incredibly thin, excessively beautiful and expensively dressed. Almost everyone wore black, affected big, horn-rimmed spectacles and wafted aromas so powerful it smelt like the Harrods perfume counter. The women wore so much make-up she felt naked, even with Jessie’s bright red score on her lips. These women had lipstick in deep shades of red bordering on black, with perfectly manicured nails to match. Every time they met someone new, there was endless air-kissing and cries of ‘Darling!’
In Jessie’s trail, Liz was introduced to one arty type after another. She was glad Jessie had dressed her; at least she didn’t feel too out of place. She played the part for as long as she could, air-kissing people she didn’t know, laughing, pretending to understand the art while being careful not to comment on it, making up stories about why she’d come to England, what she did at home.
‘You seem to be having a good time, Mum,’ Jessie said during a brief gap when there was no one to schmooze.
‘I’m glad I came. I haven’t had so much fun in a long time.’ Surprised at herself, she realised she was having fun. For over an hour now, she’d been able to forget the real reason she’d come to London and it felt good. But making stuff up was getting exhausting. She was beginning to forget what story she’d told to whom. She was in danger of being found out.
‘They’re going to have the speeches now. But they won’t last long – I hope.’ Jessie pulled a face. ‘Some artists find it hard to string two words together. Others start talking about themselves and can’t stop.’
‘My feet are getting sore. I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a minute. Why don’t I go over there?’ Liz pointed at a black leather sofa in one corner.
‘Good idea. I’ll come and get you after the speeches. Then we can go home.’
Liz took her glass of wine off and sank into the soft reaches of the vast sofa, crossing her legs as elegantly as she could and affecting to study the nearest artwork. After a few moments, a young woman approached. Much younger than Jessie, she had an alarming arrangement resembling two knitting needles sticking out of a tightly coiled knot of hair at the nape of her neck. Tall, sleek, in black, of course,
she had the leggy grace of a ballerina.
‘Are you all right on your own there, sweetie?’
‘Yes, perfectly, thank you.’ Liz summoned up as much hauteur as she could muster. ‘I thought I’d sit out the speeches.
‘Good idea,’ the woman said and glissanded away.
The speeches started. It seemed the artist was fond of the sound of his own voice. Liz put her glass down on the floor, rummaged in her bag and pulled out the letter from Steven she’d received that morning to fill in the time. She’d been surprised to receive it, not expecting him to write – he never wrote to Jessie; she always did that for him. The letter hadn’t contained much news. Richard had a new play coming up at Downstage, a breakthrough at last. Steven had been out fishing with a friend from work and caught four kawahai and a snapper which he’d cooked for his tea; he’d smoked the other fish for her to enjoy when she got home. She could taste it now, the firm brown smoky flesh, and it made her wish she was home rather than in this strange place where she knew she was a bit like a fish out of water. She smiled at her own pun.
In Her Mothers' Shoes Page 13