She whistled for Joey. The dog returned, delighted to be summoned, his tail beating, ears perked up. He licked her knee. She rubbed his head. She finished her cigarette and flicked the tab into the river. It could go all the way to the ocean.
She walked home quickly. The light was starting to fade and she was ready to go to bed. Not much revision accomplished but another day done. Another day closer to freedom. Another step nearer to the journey she was intent on making.
She had only asked once, that she could remember, when she was nine. She had learnt somehow that her adoption and Stephen’s were not talked about. Close family knew, like Auntie Min and both the grannies and Dad’s brother John. Other people must have known surely. Mum turning up to Church with a babe in arms, no former sign of pregnancy? Presumably people just took their cue from the Underwood’s reticence. So she had learnt, not that it was shameful, but that it was private. Nobody else’s business. Not quite a secret but as good as.
She’d been driven to ask after having a nightmare. So bad it had sent her to Marjorie’s room. That was unusual, for she was a child who resented rather than sought out physical affection. She had always wriggled out of Marjorie’s embrace, preferring to be unfettered. In the dream she had chopped Marjorie’s head off. Robert had shouted at her and then she had pointed to her mother and said no harm was done. Her mother’s head was back on but the face was that of a stranger.
She had reared up gasping and switched the light on. It was autumn and a moth batted against the shade, which gave her another shock, making her heart race and her breath hurt. With shadows biting at her heels she went to her parent’s room. She let her mother hug her and delayed her return to bed by asking for a glass of milk. Her mother tucked her back in and kissed her on the forehead. She put the landing light on and left Nina’s lamp off so the moth would leave her room.
The following day she waited until she could be sure no one would interrupt them and then asked her mother, ‘When you adopted me did you meet my mother that had me?’
Marjorie froze, blinked fast, put the iron down and let her hands rest lightly on the edge of the board. Nina watched her.
‘No.’
‘What was she called?’
‘I can’t remember, erm . . . Driscoll, I think. Yes.’
‘What was her first name?’
‘I don’t know, Nina. I don’t think they ever told us.’
Her mum looked calm but Nina could tell she was really upset. She was squashing her hands together and her lips were tight. But Nina couldn’t stop.
‘What did she call me?’
‘Claire.’
It was a shock. She hadn’t expected an answer. Claire. Claire Driscoll.
‘Did she have red hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did she have me adopted?’
‘Because she wasn’t married. She wanted you to have a good home, a proper family. And that’s all we know.’ An edge in her voice. Putting an end to it. The lid on it.
Nina had gone out into the back garden, walked up the rockery to her perch by the birdbath. She felt hot and mean for asking all those questions. Horrible, but there was a bit inside burning bright because of the red hair. Red hair like Nina. She didn’t even know her first name. But red hair, ginger. She knew that now. And Nina had been baptised Claire – Claire Driscoll not Nina Underwood.
She had never spoken to her parents about it since. She couldn’t. They couldn’t. So as she planned to find out more she knew it would have to be done in secret. She had learnt that from them. The way of secrets.
Maybe she would tell them, once she’d done it. But not before. Their hurt and disapproval would make her words come out all sullen and rebellious and this wasn’t about that. About her life with them. It wasn’t about them at all. This was about her – just her.
Marjorie
They were about to eat when the slam of the front door signalled that Nina was home.
‘It’s on the table,’ Marjorie called out, and returned to cutting up the quiche.
Stephen noticed first. Made a little strangled sound and then glanced anxiously at Robert and Marjorie.
Oh, dear Lord. She’d shaved her head. Her lovely glossy red curls all gone, just stubble, like something from a concentration camp. ‘Oh, Nina.’
Her daughter smiled and had the grace to colour a little.
Robert swivelled in his chair and dropped his cutlery. ‘What in God’s name . . . ? What on earth have you done?’
‘It’s the fashion. Suedehead, everybody’s doing it.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. Have you any idea what a sight you look? What will people think?’
He was saying all the wrong things. Marjorie could see Nina recoiling then her chin rising, the defiance stealing into her piercing blue eyes.
‘I don't care what people think.’
‘That’s ruddy well obvious. Well, you needn’t think you’re coming to Church looking like that. Like a ghoul.’
‘Robert!’ Marjorie tried to intervene. Yes, she looked a sight but teenagers were like that, well, some of them. It really wasn’t the end of the world.
‘I’m not going to Church any more anyway so you needn’t bother. It’s all a load of rubbish.’
A stunned silence greeted that little bombshell.
‘It’ll grow back,’ Marjorie said.
‘I’m not growing it, I like it.’
‘Look in the mirror,’ he said, ‘you look ridiculous.’
Nina flinched. Marjorie felt her own pulse speed up as Robert’s voice rose. ‘Do you deliberately set out to hurt your mother and I? Do you get some perverted sense of satisfaction from causing upset? Eh? Are they going to let you go to school like that? You’ll have to wear a scarf or something.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ her face was set, nostrils flaring.
‘Oh, yes, I can, young lady. I’m your father and until you’re . . .’
‘You’re not my real father.’
‘Nina!’ Marjorie felt as if a bomb had burst in her chest. ‘Nina, stop.’
‘He’s not, and you’re not my real mother and I wish you’d never adopted me.’ She ran from the room banging the door shut behind her.
She could see Stephen’s mouth working hard to contain his emotion. It was so hard on him. He was so settled, so grounded.
‘It’s all right, love.’ She touched his hand. He shook his head.
‘I’ve no appetite.’ Robert pushed his plate away.
Please, she thought, looking at him. His eyes were lined now, the sandy hair sparse on top. Please don’t go. She didn’t say anything. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
He pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll pop up to the club.’
The blessed golf club.
‘See if anyone’s up for a game. Stephen?’
Stephen shook his head.
What about me? she thought. She ran her hands through her blonde hair, pressing her fingers on her scalp. He walks away and leaves me with the mess. He’s always shouting about how Nina has upset me but he never does a thing, not a damn thing, to make me feel better. Couldn’t he just for once stay, give me a hug or just sit and hold my hand? Talk about it. Instead of running away.
‘I’ll be back in time for Mass.’
Marjorie could still feel the burning in her chest. You’re not my real mother. She blinked to clear her eyes, hoping Stephen wouldn’t notice. She wanted to ask Robert to stay but she couldn’t, because then she would see that look in his eyes like a trapped animal and he’d pace about the house, his temper simmering, reproaching her, and she would feel she had made unreasonable demands. So she said nothing.
After he had gone she sat until Stephen had finished eating and then she cleared the table and began washing the pots.
She felt the misery settle on the house, soaking into the floors and the walls, seeping round the rooms like gas.
She listened for sounds from upstairs, for a movement that might mean Ni
na was coming down. Because this time Marjorie was not going to be the one bearing the olive branch. She wanted an apology. Nina’s words had cut her to the bone. I’m the only mother she’s got, real or not, she told herself. She had made allowances for her and given her the benefit of the doubt until she was fed up to the back teeth with it. She pressed her lips together and took a sharp breath. She rinsed the sink. Dried her hands on the tea towel. She looked with resentment at the pile of ironing: white shirts for Robert and Stephen, Nina’s uniform, bed-linen, tablecloths, her own skirts and blouses. With a sigh she went to fetch the iron.
Megan
She always did the monthly accounts sitting at the table in the front room. She could watch the street from there, see the world go by in-between filling in the columns and sorting the subtotals out. She had two months to do tonight and she wouldn’t put it off any longer. But she was distracted. There had been a programme on the telly last night about adopted people tracing their parents. She wouldn’t have had it on if anyone else had been in but Brendan had gone down the local, Francine was at her mates, Aidan God knows where and Chris tucked up in bed, so she was on her own. Brendan wouldn’t have liked it.
‘We have to put it behind us, Megan,’ he’d said just before their wedding. ‘It doesn’t do any good this dragging it all out, look at the state of you.’
He was right. She upset them both when she started on about it all. It didn’t help really.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘OK.’
So they didn’t talk about it anymore. When Francine came along they acted like she was the very first. They thought of Frances at first but Megan liked the French ending, made it a bit different. ‘Besides, people might think Frances is a boy, you can only tell when its written down.’ She was a real peach. A little doll with creamy skin and golden freckles and red curls like Shirley Temple. She won the May Queen when she was six and when she took her First Holy Communion she really was the best one there. Like an angel from an old oil painting. She turned out nice-natured too, no backbiting or whining. They got plenty of that from Aidan and Chris. Aidan was hell on legs, intent on a showdown with anything that drew breath, and Chris could whine for England, but she loved them all. Francine though, thank God she was the eldest. Lulled them into a false sense of parenthood, she did. Slept well, ate well, barely cried. She was out there now, hanging round the gate with her mates. Twelve years old and at high school.
She was already talking about doing nursery nursing. Loved the little ones. Megan didn’t care what she did as long as she stayed happy and didn’t get caught or end up on drugs. She didn’t want her having a baby before she was grown herself. Not like Megan. Too young.
Course things were different nowadays, and a good thing too. At least you could choose what you did about it. Half of Manchester were single parents, no one batted an eyelid at teenagers pushing buggies. Some girls did it instead of getting a job, something to make them feel worthwhile. That was sad. But what else could they do. They watched telly and it was like the world was an Aladdin’s cave of stuff you could have, places to go, but that wasn’t the real world. Not if you lived round here.
She drew her thoughts back to the ledger and totted up the outstanding debtors column. Thank God for calculators.
While she had watched the telly programme she’d been on edge the whole time, holding the remote control in case someone came in. She watched these women talk about having babies adopted, things she had never told anyone except Brendan. Some of it rang bells, whole bloody sleigh–fulls, and she had to get the Kleenex before they got to the first ad break.
There was a helpline number at the end and she started to memorise it and then thought what the hell for? She’d never use it. And if she did she’d be on for hours talking her whole bloody life away and she’d promised it was behind them, hadn’t she? Best left, like they agreed.
She’d three great kids, even Aidan had his moments and maybe he’d settle as he grew up. They’d a roof over their heads and now they’d enough money to manage, so why stir it all up?
Two of the women in the film had met the children they’d given up, grown-ups by then. She couldn’t imagine that. When she thought of hers, she saw a baby or the little one in the picture she kept. What would she be like now? Three years older than Francine. Be nice to know if she’d turned out all right. To tell her that you’d done it for the best. That if they’d let you, you’d have kept her and got married soon as you could. One of the women had hired a detective to find her son. That wasn’t right. It turned out OK in the film but you hadn’t a right really, had you? You signed that away when you signed the papers. Imagine the upset if she tried that. Not just her and the girl but the younger children. What would they think? They hadn’t got a clue. Laughter from outside made her look. Francine was pushing playfully at her friend Stacey. Then the pair of them doubled up with laughter again. Megan smiled. They were happy, weren’t they? Only a fool would risk spoiling all that.
Nina
The music was very loud – 10cc blaring out and all the lights were off. Nina could see the tip of the joint glowing across the other side of the room and the glow lit up Chloe’s face when she took a drag.
Nina had already had some, she felt giggly and sleepy and desperate for something to drink. She couldn’t snog Gary until she’d had a drink. He was kissing her neck. She nudged him and told him.
‘What?’
‘A drink,’ she said into his ear.
He stood up and was back in a few minutes with a bottle of cider. She drank from the bottle. It was very fizzy and cold and she had to stop every so often to let the bubbles go down. They shared the bottle for a while then Gary told her to come on.
He dragged her over the prone bodies and out into the hall. There was a red bulb so it looked like a film or something.
‘Gary?’
‘Come on.’ He moved towards the stairs.
‘What?’
‘Nina.’
He was gorgeous-looking – soft, clear skin, wide cheekbones, a dimple in his chin. His hair was shiny and brown and fell to his shoulders. Hers was growing out and she looked like she had a red afro. They’d been going together for four weeks. It was her record. He lived near Chloe and was a friend of her brother.
‘What if they . . . ?’
‘Nina,’ he said again. Not bossy but with a longing sound like he couldn’t wait and it made her feel randy.
Upstairs there was a bedroom where all the coats had been put. Gary moved them on to the floor. She lay down on the bed and he turned out the light.
She let his hands roam up and over her breasts, squeezing them. She had a mini jumper on. She shifted position and pulled it over her head, let him fiddle and undo her bra strap. She could smell fresh smoke in his hair as it fell over her face, and the scent of the new Matsumi perfume she’d used. His breathing quickened. She moved her hand down and stroked the bulge of his crotch. He kissed her, his tongue warm and soft and tasting of cider. The last time they’d been together she’d made him come, rubbing his willy up and down. He had told her when to go slow or harder and he’d been really nice afterwards. He’d given her a finger-fuck till she was dizzy and gasping and wet, but she was too embarrassed to tell him what else she needed to make her come.
She undid his zip and touched him through his underpants. His erection stretched the cloth and she felt a ripple of excitement herself. She wanted him to touch her again. She slid her own tongue into his mouth, in and out, hoping he’d cotton on. He wasn’t very bright, not school-wise. She wasn’t exactly Einstein but she managed. His writing, she’d been shocked, it was like a little kids’ and he couldn’t spell for toffee. He wasn’t clever with words, they didn’t talk much, but he wasn’t thick when it came to turning her on. He slipped his hand between her legs and pressed against the seam of her jeans. She moved against his hand, still fondling him with her own. He ended the kiss.
‘Take your jeans off,’ he said hoarsely.
She d
id, feeling the cool air of the room on her thighs. He removed his clothes and they lay side by side on the narrow bed. He rubbed her breasts again and when he rolled her nipple between his fingers she gave a mew of pleasure which made him swear softly. She touched his willy again, began to slide her hand up and down. He pushed a finger inside her, then another. She rocked her hips, straining. Wanting more. Flames danced along her arms and the back of her legs and she began to repeat his name to the rhythm he was using.
‘Nina,’ he said thickly, ‘I want to do it with you.’
She felt a fresh flare of desire. ‘Don’t come . . . you know.’
‘I’ll pull out.’ He kissed her and she opened her legs as he climbed over her. He withdrew his fingers and she felt him nudge against her. He pushed and slid in. She had expected more pain but it felt good. He braced himself on his arms and moved in and out. She wanted him to go faster, she gripped his buttocks. ‘Yes, Gary, Yes!’
He pulled away, gasped.
‘No!’ she cried.
He flopped on the bed beside her. ‘Oh, Nina, oh wow! That was great.’
She had a stitch in her side. She felt goosebumps break across her skin and the sour disappointment washed through her. So that was it. Big deal. She ached with frustration, tempted to move her hand and show Gary what would make her feel great.
The door flew open and the light snapped on. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms about herself.
‘Bloody hell!’ Chloe’s voice. ‘Sorry, but my Dad’s here and if you want a lift home you’re going to have to come now.’
Megan
There were two couples browsing and a single woman. She always let them take their time, none of that rushing to make a sale. The longer they stayed the more likely they were to buy, and once they got around to asking her about a particular roll or for a quote she could do her sales pitch then.
Brendan was off on a big job. They’d swung a contract with the university, fitting heavy-duty carpets and wear-resistant cord in the new halls of residence. It was just the boost they needed. They’d be able to complete on the loan and give Ronnie the bit they still owed him. It was a bloody marvellous feeling, to be getting level and knowing that everything else they made they could spend on themselves, on the kids and the house. Another big contract and there’d be the chance of a holiday, a proper holiday, Costa del Sol or somewhere. Mind you, it was so hot this summer you didn’t need to go abroad. An official drought, hose pipe bans and of course business in the shop had slowed down – most people couldn’t imagine wanting snug wall-to-wall when it was blazing out there.
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