Trio

by Staincliffe, Cath

  She had tentatively enquired about a home birth in Boston and the obstetrician had looked at her as though she had suggested stuffing and roasting her child at birth. So she had concentrated on stressing her desire for a normal delivery, even if that meant a long labour. Thank God the baby had been presenting in the right position and she had deliberately delayed going into the hospital until the contractions were well established. By the time she allowed Craig to get her into the car the pains were so intense that she was unable to sit down and had to travel in the back with her bum in the air.

  Her waters broke in the corridor. A shocking sensation but one that amused her too. Nature triumphs again. She caught Craig’s eye, the glint in her own helping him relax.

  ‘They’ll add it to the bill,’ he hissed at her. ‘Cleaning charges.’

  They wanted to wheel her to the maternity suite but she couldn’t sit in the chair and in the end they allowed her to walk, stopping every few yards to weather a contraction. Once there, she changed into a loose-fitting nightdress she had brought with her. Craig tried to help but his nervousness made him incapable of fixing the buttons.

  A midwife checked her pulse, blood pressure, felt her stomach and said she needed to do an internal examination. She asked Craig to step outside.

  ‘I want him to stay,’ Theresa said. ‘He’s seen it all before.’

  Craig raised his eyebrows. She wasn’t usually so blunt, but needs must.

  The midwife didn’t press the matter.

  ‘Eight centimetres dilated,’ she announced. ‘That’s very good. If you just get comfy we’ll pop this round you so we can see how Baby’s doing.’

  Theresa shook her head. She had read countless books on childbirth, attended classes, taken up yoga, and knew that if she put the monitor on her ability to move about would disappear. ‘I don’t want to lie down, not yet.’

  ‘This is just so we can make sure all is well with Baby, we can see on the screen at a glance if there’s any problem.’

  Before she could argue, a contraction swept through her, robbing her of words. She pitched forward, leaning over the bed, and Craig hurried to hold her from behind.

  ‘We’d rather leave it for now,’ Craig said. ‘You have those listening devices, don’t you?’

  The midwife nodded and went to get the sonic aid.

  Theresa straightened up. ‘Oh, God, she doesn’t like it, does she?’

  ‘Dinna fash yerself. You thirsty?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘No. Put that chair the other way round, I’ll try sitting on that.’

  He moved it and Theresa straddled the chair. She tried to relax, to let her body rest before the next flood of pain.

  Four hours later she began to push, on the bed now but not strapped up. Kneeling on one knee and holding tight to Craig and to one of the midwives. She was thinking maybe a Caesarean wasn’t such a bad idea.

  ‘I can see the head!’ Craig yelled. ‘Oh, Tess . . .’

  The child slid out and Theresa was aware of the bustle of activity, and the shaking of her legs. She closed her eyes, momentarily drunk with relief. When she opened them again she looked down at the infant, red limbs performing a jerky dance, the small face mobile and alert, huge eyes. They helped her to sit back on to the bed and handed her the baby.

  ‘A wee girl,’ Craig said.

  ‘Is she all right?’ She was desperate now to know, her eyes checking ears and fingers for anything missing, anything not properly formed.

  ‘She’s perfect.’

  ‘Hello.’ She stared at the baby. ‘Craig.’ She turned to him, her face wet with tears, screwed tight with emotion. ‘Look at her.’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ Craig cleared his throat.

  ‘No,’ she squeaked. She shook her head and tears coursed down her face.

  ‘What is it?’

  She wept, trying to swallow enough to allow her to speak. ‘She looks like me.’ She took a shuddering breath.

  ‘Of course she does.’

  ‘No,’ she said again, her voice high and out of control. ‘You don’t understand. She looks like me. That’s never happened before. It’s the first time I’ve ever known anybody who looks like me.’ And she began to cry helplessly again.

  Part Four

  Searching

  Megan Marjorie

  Nina

  Nina

  ‘We’ve been up half the bloody night. Your mother’s been lying up there worrying herself sick and you waltz in, half-cut and stinking like a brewery.’ As he yelled the chords in his neck stood out like ropes, his face was purple and some spit flew out.

  Maybe he’d have a stroke. She was ashamed of the thought but what the hell. She was sick of him.

  ‘Said I’d be late.’ She tried not to mix her words up. She was going to throw up. Vodka and barley wine. Rotten mix. ‘I need the loo.’

  ‘I haven’t finished!’ he thundered. ‘You’re fifteen—’

  ‘Dad, please.’ Her mouth filled with saliva.

  ‘Midnight. We said midnight.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she managed. She lurched towards the stairs but it was too late, she retched and a stream of vomit hit the carpet.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he cursed.

  ‘Toilet. Now!’ Marjorie appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Pressing her hands over her mouth, Nina ran up to the bathroom, her oesophagus contracting in preparation for the next eruption.

  Her mother followed her and filled the basin while Nina hung over the toilet. When she’d emptied herself she wiped the strings of saliva from her chin and flushed it all away. She washed her hands and face. Marjorie said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll clear it up.’

  ‘I know your idea of clearing up. It’ll need bicarb to get the smell out and Dettol I shouldn’t wonder. Go get yourself to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’

  She couldn’t resist the dig, thought Nina as she brushed her teeth. Her mother was always on about clearing up and being clean and tidy. As if being good at dusting or bloody ironing was in any way important. It was pathetic. And Stephen never had to do any of it, did he?

  She drank some water. Her throat was raw and the sharp smell of sick clung to her. Shame. It’d been a good night until she’d had to come back here. They’d got into the Ritz, she and Chloe. They’d plastered loads of make-up on, it wasn’t hard to pass for eighteen, they’d even memorised false birth dates in case they got asked.

  They’d got off with two blokes from Warrington way. When they left the club the blokes were planning to drive back but it was obvious that all four of them wanted something else before they left. ‘Bit of kissing and cuddling,’ Grant had said to her. They’d all sat in the car and shared a joint. It was grass and smelt like hay, which struck Nina as hilarious after a few tokes. Then Grant had taken her round the back, where there was a little alleyway. Chloe and John got to stay in the car, which was his dad’s.

  They’d done it standing up against the wall. Knee trembler. He went on longer than Gary had ever managed and it was all right, but when he kissed her it was like he was hoovering.

  After, on the all-night bus back, Chloe had told her that John had wanted to lick her down there. She’d said no. Nina wondered what it would feel like. She couldn’t remember much else about getting home.

  In her room she threw her clothes on the chair and got her nightie on. She kept stumbling and the room kept tipping.

  She pulled the sheets and blankets up and turned off the light. The room swayed and her head began to thump. She put the light back on and pushed her pillow up against the headboard so she could sit up a bit. She hadn’t really liked Grant. He’d made lots of jokes that weren’t very funny and when she said anything he’d only half-listened, his eyes roaming round the rest of the talent. She knew he was only after one thing but he didn’t pretend otherwise. Didn’t matter to her. Could have been anybody. Wham bam thank you ma’am. It made her feel go
od, not the sex so much but the fact that someone had picked her. Someone wanted her. The worst thing of all was to come home and you’d not copped off. That was the pits.

  Megan

  ‘I’m afraid he’s simply not responding to any of the measures we’ve tried.’ The head teacher frowned. ‘And, as we said at the outset, there’ll have to be some clear signs of improvement, otherwise Aidan would have to leave.’

  ‘And then what?’ Megan said. ‘What is there for him then?’

  Mr Brookes sighed. He reminded her of a baddie in a James Bond film, one of those public-school type actors whose sophistication hid real evil. Mr Brookes used fancy language and lots of slow sighs but he could snarl with the rest of them.

  ‘If there were more resources open to us then perhaps things could be different.’

  ‘His attendance is better,’ Brendan tried. ‘Up five per cent you said.’

  Mr Brookes nodded once. ‘But that’s still only giving us fifty-five per cent, and his behaviour when he is in school remains unsatisfactory.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ Megan said. ‘Exclusion and he’s back on the streets day in, day out.’

  ‘For the school this is the only appropriate course of action.’

  ‘Right.’ Megan got quickly to her feet, a rush of anger flared through her chest.

  ‘Megan?’ Brendan stood too, confused by her sudden move.

  ‘Mrs Conroy,’ said Brookes.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said, ‘we get the message. And so will he. Thirteen and on the scrap heap. I know he’s a handful, we know he’s got problems. Do you think we haven’t worried ourselves sick about it all? Not knowing if the next knock on the door’s going to be the police saying he’s been thieving again or he’s been found behind the wheel of a wrecked . . .’ She faltered, sniffed hard and set her jaw. ‘We’ve done our best. Maybe it’s not been enough but we haven’t given up on him. Not like you lot. This school, you labelled him a troublemaker as soon as he walked in those doors and you couldn’t wait to be rid . . .’

  ‘Megan!’ Brendan protested.

  ‘It’s true,’ she retorted then turned back to Brookes. ‘This solves your problem but it does nothing for Aidan. Did anyone here ever praise that boy when he did try? Eh? Not once did any of you really give him a chance, really put some time and effort into him . . .’

  ‘We have six hundred . . .’

  ‘You failed him!’ Her voice rose and she pointed at the man. ‘And it’s a bloody disgrace.’

  She walked to the door, trembling all over. She could feel a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

  Mr Brookes cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry you feel . . .’ His tone was languid, cool, he chose his words with care.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother! Save your breath.’

  She walked out.

  Brendan followed her, his eyes flicking to her and away several times as if he was worried she might start in on him next.

  In the car she put her head in her hands. ‘It’s like waiting for an accident to happen. Like those dreams you have where the brakes don’t work or the steering wheel comes off in your hands. It’s driving me up the wall, Brendan. If I only knew why he was like that, what makes him so unhappy he’s got to get into all this bother. The next time he’s caught it’s a detention centre and that’ll just make it worse – schools for crime, they are.’

  ‘Megan, you said in there, we’ve done our best. And we have. We haven’t slung him out or let him down, have we?

  She shook her head, pressed her lips together as her eyes smarted.

  ‘But it’s not enough,’ she whispered. ‘Why couldn’t we make him happy?’

  ‘Come here.’ He put his arm round her, pulled her closer. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  Oh, Brendan, she thought, no, it won’t.

  Nina

  She had no idea how to go about tracing her mother. She went to Didsbury library and looked for books. There were two on adoption; she flicked through them quickly; there were lots of different people’s stories about what had happened to them. She didn’t want to read all that, just find out how to get started. At the back of one she found a list of places and she copied them down but she didn’t understand how it all fitted together.

  Maybe she could try Central Library, they should have more books and maybe something directly about how to trace someone. She hadn’t been to Central Library for yonks. She’d joined once when her art teacher had got on to them all to use it for a project on the cubists and the impressionists. She still had her tickets.

  She told Marjorie she was going to town.

  ‘Take this –’ Marjorie opened her purse – ‘in case you see something you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She felt awkward. If Marjorie had any inkling of where she was really going . . . The thought made her stomach clutch, a cold, rolling feeling as though the tide had come in. But if she refused the money how could she explain? She nodded and pushed the money into the back pocket of her jeans.

  The library sat on the corner of Oxford Road and Mosely Street. A circular building, white stone with a domed roof and columns that made her think of postcards from foreign holidays. She went up in the cramped lift to the social sciences section. There were several books on adoption. She skimmed through and selected a handful and took them to a table to look at. She had brought pen and paper with her. Some of them used charts and tables to show the paths you could try to find someone – there were lots of different possibilities, but finding out if your birth mother was married was important because the name would change. Was she married? Had she had any more children? She felt dizzy when she tried to imagine that. She shut the book and opened another. It talked mainly about the need for counselling at every stage and said that counselling was mandatory for getting records. There were other places you could try too, like electoral rolls if you knew where they lived. One paragraph said the mother sometimes sent a note to the agency so if the child came looking they could find her. Imagine that.

  She made notes but it all seemed to be a tangle and there were places that sounded the same but had different addresses so she wrote both down. By the time she had finished she felt overwhelmed. She put the books back and got the lift down to the cafe for a drink and a smoke.

  The cafe was so gloomy, a real dive. She wondered whether they made it look like that on purpose so people wouldn’t use it much. There weren’t that many seats and the staff acted like they’d rather slit your throats than serve you drinks.

  She smoked hungrily and washed away the parched feeling with swigs of coffee. She was just finishing when Tracy Metcalfe, who’d been in her class at school, swam into view.

  ‘Hiya, Nina. Fancy seeing you here. What you doing?’

  Nina held herself still. Tracy had a gob like the Mersey Tunnel and was reputed to have done it when she was just thirteen. Tracy was a greaser with an eye for weaklings. Nina was no pushover but you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Tracy Metcalfe. And what the hell was she doing at Central Library?

  ‘Having a ciggie. What about you?’ Nina tried to erase any sign of panic from her eyes.

  ‘That’d be telling!’ Tracy winked, swung her leather shopper off her arm.

  Nina grinned.

  Tracy sat down.

  ‘I’ve got to get my bus,’ Nina said.

  Tracy nodded. She rooted in her bag for Number Six and Zippo lighter. ‘Tara!’ She clicked the lighter and sucked hard, flung her throat back in a gesture of pleasure.

  Nina fled.

  Back home she went slowly upstairs and put her notes in among her art folder. She was confident no one would rummage through that. Her mother was hoovering the dining room. Nina put the kettle on. Stephen came in the back door, saw the gas was on.

  ‘Make me one.’

  ‘Make your own,’ she said.

  ‘Nina.’

  ‘Well, when did you last make some?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Not for me you didn’t.’


  ‘You are so childish.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ she said. And saw his shock. He never swore. He looked at her but he didn’t even look mad just sorry for her or something. He shook his head and walked out. Making allowances.

  She hated that. Hated him. She didn’t need his fucking pity. She stood there, her arms locked across her body, her back rigid with tension. She’d show him, she’d show them all. Her real family, they’d be different. They wouldn’t pity her or feel disappointed in her. They’d understand. Well, it would probably just be her real mother but they’d be able to talk to each other. She’d be accepted for what she was, not what she was expected to be in someone’s boring little mind.

  The kettle began to whistle and she turned off the gas. Her mother came in rolling the hoover. ‘I’d love a cuppa, Nina.’ She pushed the pantry door open and put the hoover away.

  Nina poured water into the pot and swilled it round, went to open the caddy.

  ‘How was town? Did you get anything?’

  ‘No.’ her skin prickled and her breath caught in her throat. ‘No, I didn’t see anything.’

  The following day she tried to make sense of the notes but she wasn’t sure which place to start with.

  ‘Ring Social Services,’ Chloe said when she told her. ‘They’ll know.’

  She found the number in the phone book but it was another two days before she got the house to herself and a chance to use the phone. It was engaged at first, then she got passed on to a different department.

  At last she spoke to someone who could deal with her. The woman asked her if she had her original birth certificate.

  ‘No.’ Mum and Dad might have it but she couldn’t ask them.

  ‘Do you know what your name at birth was?’

  ‘Yes.’ Claire Driscoll.

  ‘Good. If you know your name you can buy a copy of your original birth certificate. I’ll tell you where to write. When you’ve done that it will give you information about your birth mother and where she was living when you were born. Then, if you wish to, you can apply to see your adoption records – they are usually kept by the agency who arranged the adoption. But those aren’t automatically handed over, you have to see a social worker before you get them. We make sure everyone has that basic counselling before they have access to their records. A lot of people find it very helpful.