by Maeve Haran
Just after one, her assistant arrived with her order from the enterprising young man who came round on his bike every morning with a big hamper of freshly made sandwiches.
‘I’ve brought fruit salad as well. Michael said you were looking peaky.’
Sal smiled her thanks.
The girl put down a dog-eared business card next to the fruit salad.
‘What on earth’s that?’ queried Sal.
‘The visitor you were trying to find. Liz on reception says to tell you she got it wrong. The lady didn’t go by tube after all. She came back and asked for a minicab. Your friend Ricky had left his card so they phoned his lot. She said she’d meet him round the corner.’
Sal jumped up, leaving her lunch untouched and reached for her mobile. ‘Ricky, it’s Sally Grainger. Could you do me a favour? Find out who picked up a woman with short blonde hair near our offices this morning and where they took her?’
‘Important, is it?’ Ricky enquired. ‘Only you sound a bit agitated. Mind you take care now.’
‘You’ve always been my minicab driver in shining armour. I can’t tell you what tracking down this lady would mean to me.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Ricky whistled. ‘You do know we have forty drivers?’
Laura sat at Bella’s bedside in the ante-natal unit and found herself sucked into the heightened reality of hospital life. It had been so long since she’d given birth that she had forgotten the camaraderie of the labour ward, with its powerfully female atmosphere, where the midwives were treated with far greater respect, and their opinions valued far more than any male doctor, no matter how eminent. Giving birth remained, as it had always been, a female rite of passage.
Bella, itching to be at home, and feeling much better, was a restless patient but as long as her blood pressure and urine levels remained so high, the obstetrician insisted she ought to stay in hospital to avoid risks either to herself or the baby.
The only treatment for pre-eclampsia, it transpired, was giving birth. Bella would have to stay in hospital till her baby came.
Mr A, probably leaned on by Mrs A, proved very understanding in letting Laura take time off so that she could stay at Bella’s bedside.
The daytime ticked slowly by watching Come Dine With Me and DVDs on Bella’s laptop. Sometimes patients from the other beds would gather round, and it was like a mini-cinema to watch with them. To vary the monotony, Laura ventured out and came back with biscuits and cakes and handed them round the small ward. Now and then Sam came in with a takeaway. He hadn’t got the Manchester job but he seemed much more cheerful and more confident at last.
‘I’d like to call Dad,’ Laura announced, not sure how Bella would take it. ‘I think he ought to know you’re in hospital.’
‘Your mum’s got a point,’ seconded Nigel, who came straight from work every day. ‘He is your father after all.’
‘No, he’s not. Not since he left, he’s not.’
Laura wished her experience with the baby might have softened Bella towards Simon but there was no point in arguing.
The other impact of her daughter being in hospital was that it took Laura’s mind off the reality of putting the house on the market. Despite her anxiety, this was a welcome relief – for now at least.
Ella sat in the car, experiencing one of the most frightening moments of her life. She had sat down, put her bag in the well in front of the passenger seat as she always did and then for a split second she hadn’t known what to do next. The memory that this was the brake, that the accelerator, this the gear stick, things as second-nature as breathing, completely deserted her.
And then, after only a matter of seconds, they came back and she turned on the engine.
Had she really forgotten, even for the briefest moment, how to drive a car? Maybe it was time to visit the GP and discuss her memory lapses.
A rap on the passenger window brought her back to reality and she realized that she had parked outside the allotments. She remembered now. She had taken the car because she wanted to bring home the strimmer to use in her garden at home.
Bill stood grinning at her in his bobble hat, which seemed welded to his head in summer and winter.
‘In a bit of a dream, were you?’ Bill asked, opening the door for her.
‘Thanks, Bill. Yes, I was.’
‘Are you all right? You look a bit pale-like?’
‘It was the weirdest thing,’ Ella found herself confessing. ‘I sat there and I couldn’t think what to do next.’
Bill took in her worried tone.
‘And you wondered if you were going gaga? First signs of dementia and all that?’
‘Yes, actually,’ Ella admitted.
‘The way I look at it is this. My old dad kept forgetting the name of things. He’d hold up a fork and say, “What’s this called?” I got so worried I took him to the doctor and do you know what the doctor said?’
Ella shook her head.
‘The doctor said to my dad, “Arthur,” that was my dad’s name, Arthur, “don’t worry if you can’t remember the name of a fork. Come back and see me when you can’t remember what the bloody hell a fork’s for!’
Ella grinned. ‘Let’s hope your dad’s doctor’s right. At least I can remember what a car’s for.’
Claudia was doing her best to enter into the wedding madness. It was so odd the way generations reacted. Her own had rebelled against white weddings and dashed headlong to the registry office or decided not to marry at all, convinced that a piece of paper was no guarantee of enduring love. And now here was Gaby in full meringue mode, ready to spend three months’ salary on a dress she’d wear once, enlisting four bridesmaids to clothe in matching tulle and spending hours on the Internet tracking down pistachio-coloured wraps that would match their shoes. She was even considering Vito as a ring-bearer.
Sometimes she worried about Douglas, the prospective bridegroom. She hoped it was the man Gaby was choosing, not the Flying Carpet marquee and the designer wedding dress. She knew a lot of Gaby’s friends were getting married and that, just as there was something called a ‘baby chain’ when they all fell pregnant one after another, there might be a wedding chain. She hoped Gaby wasn’t another link in it.
Don had reacted by decreeing a budget which he would pay for, then absenting himself from the proceedings. At least he hadn’t railed against the waste and extravagance and worked out how many light bulbs could be run on the champagne or suggested they hold the reception at the dump.
‘Mum,’ Gaby wafted into the kitchen, bearing the white iPad that accompanied her every waking moment, ‘you’ve got to look at this! For not much extra you can get a bridal boudoir for your wedding night! They kit it out like a sheik’s tent in the desert. Wouldn’t that be the most romantic thing in the whole world?’
‘We’re already pushing the budget to its limits with a sit-down dinner and dancing. I’m pretty sure it won’t run to sheik’s tents. Have you asked Douglas what he thinks?’
‘Oh, he won’t care. He’s happy to leave it all to me. Come on, Mum, you only get married once.’
Claudia didn’t snap: ‘I think you’ll find that’s no longer the case. Especially when you only met five minutes ago on the Internet’, but that was what she was thinking.
‘You really can’t help yourself, can you?’ Gaby flashed, seeing her mother’s expression. ‘Just because you and Dad have been worried ever since you moved here, you can’t imagine anyone else will be happy! I’m going to look at the bridal boudoir whether you’re coming or not!’
Rather than scream in frustration Claudia grabbed the dog and headed off for a walk. Halfway down the village street she bumped into Betty who was on her scooter, accompanied by Daniel Forrest.
‘You look down in the dumps,’ Betty greeted her.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘It’s either that or you’re trying to strangle that poor animal.’
Claudia glanced down to find that Vito’s lead was caught round his neck
and she was inadvertently throttling him. ‘I’m sorry. It’s all this wedding fever. It’s driving me nuts. My daughter is planning to spend the gross national product of Brazil in a single day on tents and monogrammed napkins.’
‘Come with us to Sing Out,’ Daniel suggested. ‘Nothing like meeting a bunch of young offenders to take your mind off marquees and menus.’
Claudia had a hundred things to do but she realized how much she wanted to go. It might restore her sanity. Besides, there was still plenty of time till the wedding.
‘I’ll just take the dog home.’
‘Bring him along. He’s just what we need to break the ice with the reluctant youth.’
‘Can you take a dog into a young offenders’ institution?’
‘Probably not, but there’s been a change of plan. We’re meeting in a community centre instead.’
When they arrived at the dingy venue on the outskirts of Dorking, a dozen or so unenthusiastic teens were already waiting. They all wore Hi-Vis waistcoats in Day-Glo colours, apparently for their own safety as they’d just been litter-picking. None of them looked up.
Then one of the girls spotted Vito.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous!’ she yelped. ‘Can I pick him up?’
Claudia had never seen Daniel out of his rarefied middle-class element before and she was amazed. Not only was he right about Vito, but he also produced exactly the right tone, upbeat and friendly without being patronizing, to win over these spiky youngsters who had no reason to trust adults, most of whom had let them down or worse.
Daniel divided them into the ones who could sing along with their own music and the ones who could dance. He then threw the officials into a tizzy by swapping their waistcoats so that the singers had one colour and the dancers another. The waistcoats instantly became the badge of their group rather than an imposition by authority.
He got out his iPad, downloaded the lyrics for ‘Officer Krupke’ from West Side Story, and suggested they do their own updated version of this witty paean to anti-authority.
The version they came up with was both clever and funny. Claudia clapped and clapped. Seeing the energy and enthusiasm of these kids had been the perfect antidote. And so had spending time with Daniel.
‘You ain’t too bad for an old bloke,’ congratulated one of the youths as they parted.
‘What do you reckon?’ Daniel asked as they headed for the car.
‘Fabulous. I really enjoyed it.’
‘You should come again next time,’ he suggested. ‘You’re wasted in Minsley.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Claudia, ignoring the flashing signs of danger, ‘I think I’d really like to.’
Sal came out of her bedroom after a sleepless night to find the doorbell ringing insistently.
‘Yes, who is it?’ she barked into the intercom.
‘Delivery for you.’
Sal shrugged. She wasn’t expecting anything. She opened the front door to find Ricky Reliable holding a bag from Caffè Nero. ‘Breakfast,’ he announced. ‘And someone to share it with.’
He stood back to reveal Lara, plus suitcase.
Sal couldn’t stop herself. She threw her arms round Lara and held close to her heart the child she had given away for adoption more than forty years ago.
Lara stepped back and looked Sal in the eye. ‘I take it you were an au pair in Oslo after all.’
‘Lara, I am so, so sorry. There are reasons . . .’
‘You don’t have to explain.’ Lara’s smile was warm and genuine. ‘I shouldn’t have just turned up like that. I was warned not to.’
‘Are you ladies going in or not?’ Ricky grinned, pushing Lara’s case behind the door and handing over the croissants.
For a moment they sat in silence, Sal on the armchair, Lara perched on the edge of the sofa, the weight of the past a gulf between them.
‘I can’t wait to hear,’ Sal gushed at last. ‘Tell me all about yourself.’
‘My name is Lara Olsen, obviously. I am forty-five years old. Born in Oslo, as you know. Married. And I am a journalist.’
‘A journalist! How strange, so am I. How did you find me? Did you even know I was English?’
Lara smiled again. ‘My job helped. You learn how to find people. I’d interviewed a wonderful woman – Mia – who tracks down lost families. I had never meant to look for you, but when I met her I thought: “This is Fate”. It was she who found you, not me. She told me not to do this, not to come and see you out of the blue, but I was in London and I couldn’t stop myself. She said it might wreck all my chances. You might refuse to acknowledge me.’
Sal felt herself choking up. ‘And that was exactly what I did.’
‘It is very common, Mia says. Women see their babies as being in the past, they have other lives now, they don’t want to rake up the ashes.’
‘Well, I do. I’m thrilled. I’m overwhelmed, but I’m delighted – no, that’s too small a word. I’m overcome.’
She hugged Lara all over again. ‘I want to hear all about you, every single detail since you were adopted.’
Lara laughed. She had a wonderful laugh that belied her cool and poised demeanour. ‘That will take a long time.’
‘How long have you got?’
‘My plane is early this afternoon.’
‘I should offer you something. Coffee?’
‘That would be lovely.’ She got up to help. She was wearing thick fluffy socks under her ankle boots.
‘Do you get cold feet?’
‘Like ice. My husband won’t let me in the bed without socks.’
‘Me too,’ marvelled Sal. She had always suffered from cold hands and feet even before the chemo.
Sal took down the coffee from the shelf. ‘Black or white?’
‘Black, please. I always say milk is for cows . . .’
‘Me too. And do you take sugar?’
‘Three, please.’
‘So do I.’ She glanced at Lara’s feet. ‘Your second toe isn’t longer than your big one, is it?’
Lara removed her sock and held up her foot for inspection.
They stared at each other, awed by these unsuspected similarities.
‘You did not marry? Not ever?’ Lara looked around at Sal’s pared-down home with its smart but slightly soulless décor.
No, still a single girl, Sal almost replied, but it sounded pathetic and she didn’t want Lara to pity her. ‘I always had my career to consider.’ That was a bit grandiose, but better than the truth which was that she had never found anyone. ‘Maybe I was a bit burned by what happened. I was so young and naïve.’
‘Tell me about it. I would like to hear it all.’
Sal poured the coffee and sat opposite her on the sofa.
‘I was eighteen and ludicrously innocent. It was the Sixties. The world was changing. The press said it was all free love and flower power but I was just a naïve Northern girl who’d never even been abroad and my mother hadn’t told me anything. I met your father and I just fell for him. I suppose I was crazily irresponsible but I was in love and I just thought everything would work out.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘His name was Erik Jonsson. He was a philosophy student at the university in Oslo. And my ski instructor. . .’
Even after all these years, Sal almost blushed at how clichéd that must sound, falling for your ski instructor like all the other silly girls.
‘My father was a ski instructor?’ She could see Lara didn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified. ‘I suppose that explains my carved turns. Is he still alive?’
‘I’m so sorry, but I have no idea. I haven’t seen him since. He got scared when I told him I was pregnant and I never saw him again.’ She knew she could never tell Lara about the disgust in Erik’s eyes when she had told him she was pregnant.
‘That was so cruel of him.’
‘He was frightened, I suppose. He was only twenty. Too young to be a father.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘
I went to work as an au pair and hid the pregnancy. When it became obvious, I was approached by a woman who asked if she could help. She said she was from a charity that helped unmarried mothers to have their babies adopted. I thought it might be a scam, that she was doing it for money, but it was a real charity, one of those anti-abortion ones I hate. She took me to a home for unmarried mothers and I had you in hospital. Then they came and took you away.’ Sal got up to hide her tears at the searing memory, as fresh now as it was forty years ago. ‘Before I left, they made me swear with my hand on the Bible that I would not look for you. They made it feel it was binding because they said it would be the best for you.’
She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room and came back holding a tiny vest. ‘I kept this. I wasn’t supposed to, but I had to have something.’ She smiled at Lara, who was fighting tears herself. ‘You didn’t have any hair so I couldn’t take a lock of that.’
‘I’ve always had terrible hair.’ Lara held up the tiny vest for a moment. ‘I am so glad I’ve found you.’
They clung to each other, silently.
‘And your adopted mother? Tell me about her. She was someone the charity found through the church?’
‘Astrid. She was great. A really good mother.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Practical. Busy. A whirlwind round the home, cleaning, cooking, not such a career woman. But she was always there.’
The picture Lara painted was almost the opposite of Sal herself. Would she have been able to provide a child with that kind of unselfish love?
‘She did have her romantic streak. She loved Omar Sharif in Doctor Zhivago. That’s why I’m called Lara.’
Sal smiled at that. What had Rose said about her being like Julie Christie in her fur hat? How extraordinary the way things turned out.
‘So she was a good mother?’
‘Very good. But she was different to me. I am not such a homebody.’ Lara’s smile held a touch of mischief. ‘I have a little bit of a wild streak.’
Sal laughed. ‘So have I.’
‘Maybe it’s you I get it from.’