Nina was scribbling down as much as she could.
‘So, first I need my birth certificate?’
‘Yes, you write to the General Records Office and they will send you a form. I’ll give you their address in a minute. They make a small charge, a few pounds or so, for a copy.’
‘Right.’
Nina wrote the address down.
‘When you’ve got your birth certificate you can ring here again and we can make an appointment with a social worker.’
‘Thanks.’
She dropped the receiver as she replaced it, her hands were trembling. God. Maybe she should just leave it? She looked at what she had scrawled on the paper. If she just got the birth certificate, it didn’t mean she had to do anything else. Before she could get any more confused about it all she went up to her room, got out notepaper and an envelope, wrote asking for her birth certificate, sealed the letter and addressed the envelope. She sent it that afternoon, a sense of occasion. She would have to watch the post. A thrill made her want to run, or jump up and down. It was exciting, there was an undercurrent too, a pull of guilt as though she had done something naughty and might get caught. But it was done now. No turning back.
They told her to apply again when she was eighteen. Nina was furious. ‘I can get married,’ she ranted to Chloe, ‘leave home, work in a poxy little job for forty hours a week, but I can’t find out who I am!’
‘Could you find her without those papers?’
‘Chloe, I don’t know her full name. I can’t do anything till I have that. I’ll have to wait. They said it might be different if I had my parents’ permission but there’s no way I’m asking them. They’d go mad.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do know that. But the day I’m eighteen I’ll do it.’
Chloe leant forward into the mirror and applied thick black mascara to her lashes. ‘What if you don’t like her?’
Nina shrugged. ‘It’s all right for you, least you know where you come from, who you look like.’
‘Yeah, the bloody Adams family!’
‘Give over.’
‘Pink or yellow?’ Chloe held up eye shadows.
‘Pink – and you should do your mascara last.’
‘Says who?’
‘Well, you’ll get pink all over it now, and then you’ll have to do it again.’
‘Are you coming like that?’ Chloe raked her eyes over Nina’s unadorned complexion.
‘No.’
‘Well, get a move on. It’s a pound more after nine o’clock.’
Marjorie
She loved this place. And it was always such a contrast with home. Each summer she’d be surprised afresh at the rough plaster walls, the stone-flagged floors, the simmering views over gauzy hillside terraces and fields. The hillsides were mauve and olive from the wild thyme and lavender. She relished the sound of cowbells in the air and the incessant chattering of the small birds that swooped in and out of their nests under the eaves, the smell of sun-baked pine.
They had all their holidays in southern France.
It had been an idyll, but now . . .
She waited in the sitting room, close to the drive for any sound that would interrupt the shrilling of the cicadas, swivelling the bracelet on her wrist. Moths batted against the windows, crazy for the light.
At last she heard the crunch of gravel and hurried to the door. It was Stephen on his butcher’s bike. He slithered to a stop and propped the bike against the wall.
‘She’s in the square,’ he said. ‘She’s been drinking. She was in the fountain.’
‘Oh, God!’ Marjorie closed her eyes at the thought.
‘Dad’s bringing her back.’
‘Come in.’
‘I hate her, Mummy,’ he blurted out, his normally placid expression twisted with dislike. ‘She ruins everything. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. Her top was all wet. Everyone could see.’
She shared his shame and anger. ‘Oh, Stephen!’
‘Why do you let her do things like that?’
What do you expect, she wanted to say, what can we do? If she’s hell-bent on raising Cain how can we stop her. Lock her up?
‘I’m sorry. You mustn’t let it spoil the holiday.’
‘Frederique came out of the restaurant and asked her to get out and she just made fun of him. You could see how upset he was.’
He began to cry and she pulled him close. He was taller than she was now, his chin on her head as he cried. Compassion choked her. And guilt. Could they have done more? What, though? Oh, my poor boy. It’s so unfair. Thank God he was off to university in October. Away from all the awful arguments.
She heard the sound of a car drawing closer. Stephen pulled away. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘There’s milkshake in the fridge if you want to take some.’
She let him go and watched as the car headlights swept in at the end of the drive, picking out the Bougainvillea that scrambled along the wall. Her stomach fluttered with dread at the shouting match to come.
Robert cut the engine and snapped off the lights. Nina was still. Thank God she’s not singing.
Robert opened his door. ‘Get a towel,’ he called.
She went in and fetched one of the beach towels from the drying rack in the kitchen. When she returned, Robert was by the house. He took it from her and opened the passenger door. Marjorie half-expected Nina to fall out like some comic drunk but she didn’t move.
‘Get out,’ Robert said coldly, holding the towel up, the gesture at odds with his tone.
Nina got out slowly. As she stepped away from the car the light from the lantern by the front door fell on her.
Marjorie gasped.
Nina’s face was cut, an angry gash bled below one eye, her eye half-shut. Her upper lip was split and swollen. Her wet blouse was torn and Marjorie could see another mark on her upper arm. Her hair was plastered to the side of her head. The cloud of moths batted against the light, casting shadows over Nina’s wounds. A bat flew swiftly above.
‘What on earth’s happened?’
Nina looked blankly at Marjorie.
Robert draped the towel around her.
‘Nina?’
‘Leave her,’ Robert instructed.
‘Robert?’ She didn’t understand.
‘Go to your room,’ he told his daughter.
She began to move slowly, walking stiffly, her face still expressionless.
‘But she’s hurt.’
‘Let her go.’
‘What on earth has happened?’
‘She’s had a bloody good hiding, that’s what. Knock some sense into her. And not before time.’
She stared at him incredulous, felt the hairs on her arms prickle.
He gave a short humourless laugh and shook his head. ‘She’s had it coming, Marjorie. There are limits. Should have done it years ago.’ He went inside.
She moved, balanced against the little archway to the side of the door. Traditionally a shrine to the Virgin Mary.
She looked up at the sky but in place of the stars she saw only the brutal damage that Robert had done. It was wrong. No matter how far Nina had pushed him, to do that . . . break her face, beat her up. She covered her mouth with her hand. She felt sick. She closed her eyes and prayed: Sweet mother of God, help me. Oh, God, help me.
Nina
Life was a mix of work and waiting. She’d got taken on by British Home Stores at the Arndale Centre. She knew her parents were disappointed. They had wanted her to get more qualifications. ‘I’ve five O levels,’ she told them.
‘Well, why stop now?’ Robert Underwood demanded. ‘You’re a bright enough girl, if you’d only apply yourself . . .’
‘I don’t want to. I’ve had enough of all that.’
‘You could even go to art school,’ he said in desperation. He’d always regarded her success in art as an amusing but essentially irrelevant achievement.
‘I’m not going back, I’m going t
o get a job.’
‘You’re cutting your nose off to spite your face!’ he shouted.
‘You don’t even listen. You never try to see my side of things!’ She had slammed out of the room. Silence clouded the days that followed. Cold disapproval. She comforted herself with the thought that she would save once she was working and she would get enough to put a little deposit down on something. And before long she’d have a place of her own and he’d have to eat his words.
But saving hadn’t been easy, she didn’t know where all the money went. She gave Marjorie some for her bed and board and she bought quite a lot of clothes from work, where they got staff discount. She got the chance to move into window dressing after her first three months. A chance to use her eye for colour and design.
On her eighteenth birthday she wrote again for her birth certificate. It took almost six weeks for it to come after she had returned the fee and the application form. Nina had stopped watching the post quite so avidly. It was Stephen who brought it into the kitchen, where Marjorie was clearing up the breakfast post and Nina about to leave for work. It was a training day.
‘Official letter for Nina.’ Stephen waved the brown envelope.
She snatched it from him. She saw the postmark and her stomach swooped.
‘Who’s it from?’ Marjorie asked.
‘Work, something to do with the tax office. I’ll be late, better go.’
She didn’t dare open the letter on the bus, she needed to do it in private. She was eager to know what it said but also frightened. It was like opening a Pandora’s box.
She tried to pay attention as they went through the forthcoming season’s plans, stock returns and health and safety but her mind darted back to the envelope all the time. She waited until after tea at home to go up to her room and open the letter. She used her nail file to slit it open. She drew out the certificate and unfolded it. Pink paper, the headings all in red ink. Her eyes flew across the columns. Megan Driscoll . . . Collyhurst . . . Claire. She forced herself to stop and read it slowly. When and where born – Twenty-fourth May 1960, Withington Hospital, Nell Lane, Withington. Name, if any – Claire. She had looked up Claire and it meant clear or bright, a nice name. Sex – girl. Name and surname of father – just a dash across the page. Name, surname and maiden surname of mother – Megan Agnes Driscoll (factory worker), 14 Livesey Street, Collyhurst. An address, a proper address. Some places put down the mother and baby home, she’d read, but this was her real address. She couldn’t sit still, she jumped up and walked slowly about, continuing to read. Occupation of father – another line struck through the column. Signature, description and residence of informant – Megan Driscoll, mother, 14 Livesey Street, Collyhurst. When registered – Twentieth June 1960. Signature of registrar – D.H. Coombes, Registrar. And at the edge of the page, D.H.Coombes had written Adopted and signed it.
There was nothing about how old Megan had been. She scanned it again to make sure. Megan Agnes Driscoll. And the address. With that she had some place to start from. She read and reread the piece of paper. Megan, wasn’t that a Welsh name? But Driscoll sounded Irish. There were loads of Irish in Manchester. Collyhurst was just out of town. She had passed through there on the way to Leeds on the coach. It was a run-down area, lots of slums. She thought they’d knocked quite a bit of it down.
She could look it up in the A-Z, see if it was still there. She wanted to go there now. Daft. She told herself to calm down, sit down. Her ears were buzzing with the excitement and her heart felt like it was too big. That’d be great, wouldn’t it? Have a heart attack and die before she could trace her. Marjorie and Robert finding her, the certificate clutched in her hand. Wracked with remorse for never understanding her.
She pulled out her portfolio from under the bed, brushed off the fluff and dust and untied the ribbon. She got out her folder and looked again at the notes she’d made from the books and from the phone call with the social worker. She could use this now to write to the adoption agency, the Catholic children’s place, and to ask them for her adoption records. But she’d be expected to have counselling from someone before she was given them. She might as well see what they had. There was nothing to stop her seeing if the house was still there in the meantime.
She went the following Saturday. Collyhurst was awful. Even worse on foot. She felt out of place and some boys had called out at her, made dirty suggestions which made her feel frightened. There was no 14 Livesey Street. The whole lot had been flattened. There was just a big patch of waste land and, beyond the railway bridge which crossed the street, there was a primary school and a scrap yard.
She had passed some shops a few minutes down the main road with a newsagents amongst them. She retraced her steps and went in. She had practised a story, which she trotted out to the woman behind the counter and the customer she was chatting to. Nina said she had moved away and lost touch with relatives who had lived on Livesey Street. When had they knocked the houses down?
‘Be a good few years now,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘You could try asking at the Housing. Some people went out to Wythenshawe. What were they called, love?’
‘Driscoll.’
Recognition lit the woman’s face. ‘Anthony Driscoll. They had a stall on Tib Street for years. Don’t think they’ve got it now though.’
Would that be Megan’s father? Nina’s grandfather.
‘And Grey Mare Lane,’ the other woman piped up.
‘I couldn’t swear to it but I think they moved out to Wythenshawe when they did the clearance. Try the Housing, they should know.’
Nina nodded and left.
It was cold and she struggled against the wind as she walked back along Oldham Street to Piccadilly Gardens. People waited at the bus stops, many of them poorly dressed and carrying bulging shopping bags. Nina was aware of her neat, new clothes – one of the perks of working at the shop. A couple of tramps were begging and Nina gave them some change. The wind seemed to howl down the street, lifting litter and dust and blowing over a sandwich board outside one of the shops.
Wythenshawe was the other side of Manchester, near the airport. A stall on Tib Street and Grey Mare Lane, a market. Nina had never been there but it would be like the market in Longsight, she thought, cheap and cheerful. Was that what Megan did? Worked on the market with her family? Outdoors in all weathers. She might be really common, swearing and rollers in her hair, like Hilda Ogden off Coronation Street. And what would Megan make of Nina? A right snob? But then when she was adopted that’s what people wanted, didn’t they? A better life, a good home for their child.
In Piccadilly the pigeons flew in an arc around the gardens. The place was noisy and busy and her bus was full so she had to stand all the way back. If she got stuck tracing Megan she could always try finding her father first in Wythenshawe, look in the phone book. Nina was getting closer. The bus lurched to a halt suddenly as the driver swerved to avoid a car. People muttered and cursed. Nina straightened up, smiled at the woman who’d bumped into her. She must tell Chloe. What next? She could try and find a marriage at the records place so she’d know if Megan had changed her name, or she could just go up to the markets the woman had talked about and see if anyone knew where the family had moved. Or try the Housing Department, but she thought they might be a bit cagey about giving details out unless you could prove a connection. She could even put a little advert in the paper. But that felt scary. How would people contact her anyway without Marjorie and Robert finding out? It was probably best to wait and get her proper records. After all, Megan might have sent details of where she was so she could be easily found. Yes, she’d hang on and do that first.
‘There are only the formal records, I’m afraid,’ the counsellor said. She held the large manilla envelope in her hand. Nina wanted to snatch it from her.
‘Sometimes there is a letter or photo but that’s less likely because of the time when you were adopted. In the sixties your birth mother would have been told very clearly that she was giving up all rig
ht to you, she had to swear in court, to make everything legal.’ She drew out the papers. ‘I’ll just explain what’s here and then I’ll give you a little time to yourself if that’s what you’d like?’
Nina nodded. Get on with it. Her palms were damp and her throat felt as though she’d overeaten.
‘This is the History Sheet.’ She showed Nina a typed-up form. ‘It would have been made by the social worker when your mother first applied to the society for help, and attached are some notes obviously made after you were born. Then there’s this medical record – all the children had to be examined by the doctor, of course. I’ll be next door if you need anything or want to ask any questions.’
Nina felt disappointment steal through her. There was so little. She read it through slowly. There was some new information. Her mother’s age – sixteen, only sixteen – and a note that she had been a packer in a factory. She read the handwritten sheet.
24/5/60 Baby girl born at Withington. Both well.
27/5/60 Baby baptised Claire by Father Quinlan.
10/7/60 Baby placed for adoption with Mr and Mrs Underwood, 29 Darley Road, West Didsbury, Manchester.
12/7/60 Megan discharged home.
Two days after, oh God! She wiped at her eyes. Looked at the medical form – nothing there of interest except her birth weight, six pounds twelve ounces.
Nothing about who the father might be or how Megan came to be pregnant.
No letters.
No photo.
She had been expecting so much more.
Maybe Megan didn’t care, hadn’t cared. Maybe ‘Claire’ had been the result of some silly mistake, larking about with some loser from the market or the factory, him taking advantage and bingo, a bun in the oven. A problem to be got rid of. Forgotten about. These days she’d have an abortion, it was illegal back then and dangerous. Nina was furious. She hated her. How could she just leave her like that? Walk away and never, not once, think about her and leave some sign.
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