Trio

by Staincliffe, Cath

  Craig reappeared. ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Nothing. They’ll be here soon. Oh, God.’

  Ella’s limbs tremored then stopped. Her features slackened, the red drained from her face, her abdomen sank back on to the mattress. She began to whimper. Theresa lifted her up, cradled her against her left shoulder, gently rubbing her back, making soothing sounds. ‘Is she awake?’

  Craig checked. ‘Yes, she looks fine. Bit sleepy.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Here soon. You poor wee babby,’ he said to his daughter.

  At the hospital they needed to perform a battery of tests to try and establish the reason for the seizure. Family history was one of the questions that kept being raised.

  Craig had already rung his mother and established that there was nothing on either side of his that he could have passed on.

  ‘I’m adopted,’ Theresa told the consultant. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  They took turns sitting by her bedside. They allowed Theresa to stay the night, sleeping on sponge block on the floor. She barely slept in the unfamiliar place. The sound of other children sleeping, the whir of heating and clanking of pipes competing with any sound from Ella, so she strained to hear, bracing herself to call the staff if her breathing altered or there was any sign of discomfort.

  After two days and three nights there had been no repetition, they had made no positive diagnosis and Theresa was dead on her feet.

  ‘Some of the blood tests are still being completed,’ said the consultant, ‘and that may tell us more, but I must say there doesn’t seem to be any clear indication at this stage.’

  ‘Would it help if you knew more about my family history?’ Theresa said.

  ‘It would help us to rule out or factor in genetic predisposition, but at the end of the day it might not give us an answer.’ She nodded. She could feel Craig’s eyes on her, questioning, would she? She continued to look at the doctor, not wanting to make a decision about it here, in front of a stranger.

  They took Ella home. If she had any further seizures they should bring her back to the hospital immediately. They had a list of do’s and dont’s. Don’t use duvets, cot bumpers or too many blankets, don’t overdress the baby, make a note of any symptoms that precede a seizure – aversion to light, vomiting, diaorrhea, high temperature. It was like living with a time bomb.

  The following evening she sought out Craig in his study, where he was preparing lectures.

  ‘You think I should find out my medical history, don’t you?’ She lowered herself into the easy chair.

  He put down his pen, blew air out through his mouth. ‘You heard what the doctor said: ‘It might help them get to the bottom of it’.

  She rubbed at her forehead. ‘That’s all I’d want,’ she said, ‘just the medical stuff.’

  He waited.

  ‘I’d just be doing it for Ella.’

  ‘I know.’ He looked at her.

  ‘It’s scary. Even that.’ She frowned, eyes suddenly wet. ‘Don’t know why.’

  ‘The unknown.’

  She agreed. ‘And ignorance is bliss. But if there was something, in my genes, and I hadn’t tried to find out . . .’ she shook her head.

  He moved around his desk and stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, bent to kiss her hair. ‘I love you,’ he murmured.

  ‘Me, too.’ She kissed his hand. But her thoughts were distracted, strewn about like dropped papers, and she felt only dread at the thought of the journey ahead. The unknown stretched before her like a chasm, black and bottomless.

  Caroline

  She was walking the Pennine Way, the whole of it, from Edale to Kirk Yetholm, right along the backbone of England. On their visits to Paul’s family in Settle she had walked a lot in the Yorkshire Dales, she had done the three peaks – Ingleborough, Pen-y-ghent and Great Whernside – and had promised herself one day she’d walk the whole length of the hills and here she was. Bliss.

  She had left Malham that morning carrying her pack. It was a fair morning, bright and blustery, the sort of day when you could see right across the fells, pick out tiny sheep clinging to hillside tracks and watch the clouds chase across the sky, skimming shadows over the undulating green swards. Most of this section was treeless. The lower slopes would once have held forests but these had been cleared hundreds of years before for farming. The Romans had marched over here, building their long, straight roads, some of which were now part of the route.

  Limestone country, and the white rock gave a bright, luminescent feel to the landscape, so that even in the foulest weather it never had the bleak, god-forbidden look of places like Dartmoor with its darker stone, where she had walked the previous summer.

  She checked her map and followed the lower trail, which would take her down the hillside to meet a path rising from the hamlet below. She let her thoughts ramble as they did whenever she walked. Not concentrating on anything but aware nevertheless that there was an accounting going on. A weighing up of what she had made of her life, a consideration of what she would like to change, an assessment of her emotional health.

  As she rounded the corner she found a stile set in the dry-stone wall. Just beyond it was a cairn of stones and, following tradition, she found a small pebble to add to the mound. Large rocks, fissured and worn, scattered the area and she decided to stop and have lunch among them. She had brought a piece of the creamy Wensleydale cheese, bread rolls, tangy orange tomatoes, locally grown, a flask of coffee and some flapjack. She ate and drank and then closed her eyes, savouring the quiet that was interrupted only by the pee-wit of the lapwing or the melancholy cry of the curlew and the barking call of grouse.

  She felt safe on the hills. The nearest she got to peace. ‘The one place I can’t follow her,’ Paul joked. And there was some truth in it. She relished the solitude and gently avoided linking up with other walkers, preferring a brisk ‘good morning’ as she passed them to any conversation.

  She would be forty-three next birthday. Her hair was showing grey and every day brought more wrinkles but she felt reasonably fit, work kept her active.

  Davey had joined them in the business. He was less interested in the plants but a natural at the landscaping and the structural side of design. People wanted more than a patch of lawn with borders these days and Davey was developing that side of things. He seemed happy with it. She didn’t need to worry about him. Sean was settled too. Doing a computing course. She barely understood what he did but he was happy and had good prospects and he was engaged to an energetic young woman in PR whose confidence was breathtaking.

  She had never heard from the Children’s Rescue Society. She had never stopped hoping but sometimes it was hard.

  She stirred herself and packed up her rubbish. She hefted the rucksack on to her back, groaning a little at the mild ache in her shoulders. She skirted the rocks and regained the path.

  Theresa

  ‘How was it?’ Craig put his briefcase on the kitchen counter, pulled out a chair.

  ‘Awful. Just like I expected. Why on earth they can’t just send you the stuff in a sealed envelope and let you get over it in private . . .’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a safety net, I suppose. Someone to listen, could be quite traumatic . . .’

  ‘Craig, there was a letter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A letter. From her.’ Her face crumpled, her brown eyes glimmered. ‘I never thought . . . It’s all very nice but I didn’t want . . . I just . . .’

  ‘Tess.’ He went to hug her. She pulled away after a minute and handed him the white envelope.

  He drew out the paper and read it. He blinked several times, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘Jeez. She was sixteen. Caroline.’

  ‘You think I should write back?’

  He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘God knows. This was written in nineteen seventy-eight. She’s not heard anything in all this time . . .’

  ‘
So I should feel sorry for her,’ she said resentfully.

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘I feel cornered,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want this. I didn't ask to be born. I didn’t ask to be adopted.’

  ‘What did the counsellor say?’

  ‘“Take some time”.’ We haven’t got time though, have we? I still need to know about the medical stuff. There’s nothing here –’ she gestured to a large, manilla envelope – ‘only a basic check they do at the home.’ Her hand sought out her ear. He didn’t miss the movement.

  ‘I feel so cross, there’s nothing to help with Ella, nothing. So that means if I want any more I need to trace Caroline and then write or get the agency to write and ask specifically. And what if it’s on my father’s side. There’s no indication who he was. It’s a nightmare.’

  She looked at him. He looked haggard, his face creasing. She knew what he was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’

  ‘This counsellor could write for you?’

  ‘First we’d have to track her down. There’s no address on the letter. And they haven’t any record of where she is. She could have left her address.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be found, a new family and all. She just wanted to leave something for you, wanted you to know.’

  ‘Wanted forgiving?’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh. I know I can’t really imagine what it’s like for you but she was sixteen, Theresa, a schoolgirl. She obviously thinks about you . . .’

  ‘Don’t. You’re right, you don’t know.’

  In the days that followed she found herself obsessed by thoughts of Caroline. She read and reread the letter, her feelings swinging from fury at being abandoned to compassion for the woman. She tried to imagine Caroline. She’d be forty-two. Married, two sons. Was she happy? Moments of spite pricked through her thoughts – hope she’s lonely, lost without me, hope she’s regretted it. She despised herself for such petty, cruel impulses. She was tearful too. When Craig was out she allowed herself to indulge in bouts of weeping, wondering where all the tears came from, whether this was a delayed case of postnatal depression. She was exhausted. She had to act.

  ‘I’m going back for more counselling with Helen next week. I’m all over the place with this. I’m going to start the tracing. Mum will have Ella for me.’

  ‘What does your mum say about it all?’

  ‘Haven’t told her yet, there wasn’t a chance really, just said I had a meeting. I don’t want to upset her. She’s on the waiting list now, for the hysterectomy. She’s a lot on her plate. I just need to find the right time.’ She felt awful keeping it from Kay, but she was frightened of what her reaction would be. She couldn’t bear it if Kay was distressed by it. It might be best to wait until she’d had her operation and recovered.

  Ella thrived but their pleasure in her was shadowed by the fear that she was ill. That something lurked inside her waiting to rear up and create fresh delirium, fresh traumas.

  At the age of eleven months she had a second fit. It was a mild Tuesday morning. Theresa went to the lounge, where Ella was asleep on her playmat, a loose cotton blanket covering her. Theresa heard a strange sound and when she went to investigate she found the child wracked by spasms, her eyes glassy and protruding like marbles, her legs quivering. She dialled 999 and went on to autopilot.

  The stay at the hospital was like a rerun.

  ‘If only we knew why,’ Theresa told the doctor. ‘It’s not knowing what’s wrong that makes it even worse.’

  ‘I’m going to order a CAT scan – that’s where we take a picture of the brain – and I want to refer you to a neurosurgeon.’

  Theresa went dizzy with fear, she laced her fingers tight with the strap of her handbag. A brain tumour? Brain disease. She tried to listen while he talked on about being cautious and keeping things in proportion and all she could imagine was a tiny coffin. It was all she could do to stay in the room.

  ‘Good grief, Tess!’ Craig said as they walked back to the ward. ‘How do people cope?’

  ‘How can I go back to work with all this?’ she said to him some days later.

  ‘What are your options? You can stay here, at home with Ella, and leave your career on hold indefinitely, or go back to the department, get on with your life. The nursery’s in the next block, we can make sure the staff are fully briefed. Your call.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Tess, giving up your work won’t make her better. It’s not about sacrifices. If you want to stay home because you’d rather do that than go back to the university that’s a different issue.’

  ‘I don’t. I want to go back. There’s a lot going on in the department. I want to be part of that, and they’ll let me do part-time.’

  ‘There’s your answer. Try it at least, see how it works out.’

  ‘Yes.’ she nodded, raked her fingers through her hair. She’d had highlights put in to pep up the colour, which she always thought of as boring brown. She still wore it long, often with a stretchy hair band that held it off her face and covered her ears. She put her hands on her hips and stretched her back, which was tight with tension. ‘Craig, about Caroline. There’s days you can go to St Catherines’ House, they help you find marriage certificates and all that. I’m going to go.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded.

  ‘I thought last night . . . what if she’s dead?’

  He made a noise.

  ‘Then we’ll never know, will we?’

  ‘We might not anyway,’ he pointed out. ‘There may be no epilepsy or anything else in the family.’

  ‘I keep thinking about it, more and more, what I’ll do if we find her. Things I’d like to ask her, not just health stuff. Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . see her face to face.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Really?’

  She nodded. ‘Unfinished business.’ She smiled ruefully.

  ‘Would you do it if Ella was OK? If they found out what was wrong?’

  She considered, stroking her hair over her left ear. ‘Yes,’ she said at length, ‘I think so. Not like this, not immediately, I’d want to take it more slowly, but yes, I think I would now. It seems . . . inevitable – if she’s still alive. If she’s willing to meet me.’

  ‘Jeez, Theresa. Been a hell of a year.’

  She blew a breath out. ‘You could say that.’

  Kay

  How on earth did you break the news to your children? She’d practised the phrases – Daddy and I aren’t getting along very well, we’ve decided to separate – and rehearsed the responses to the inevitable questions – no particular reason, we’ve just drifted apart, it’s mutual.

  She had decided not to reveal anything of Adam’s affairs. Oh, there was still a vindictive streak in her that would have relished souring his reputation for them but she didn’t want to hurt them. They didn’t need to know.

  It had been two weeks since she’d told Adam she wanted out. And it had taken her months to find the courage to say so. He was putting away the Christmas decorations at the time. All the little bells and baubles. The figures they’d collected over the years. Thirty years. The set of robins that had been the twins’ favourites. She dragged herself away from reminiscence and into the harsh reality of the present.

  ‘Adam, I want a separation.’

  He sat back on his heels, peered at her. He wore glasses now, his hair had turned a steely grey but he was still an attractive man. He always would be.

  ‘But why?’ He sounded amazed.

  ‘The children have gone, there’s no need to stay together . . .’

  ‘But we’re happy.’

  She shook her head.

  He sighed, started to speak and stopped. Began again. ‘This is about Julie, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, you’re still punishing me . . . after all the . . .’

  ‘Adam. I’m fifty years old. I’ve raised a family and I’m proud of that, but that part . . . I need something else . . . Not this.’

 
‘It’s a mid-life crisis . . .’

  ‘Adam. I’m not going to change my mind.’

  ‘Jesus, Kay. I thought we’d grow old together.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said sharply. She couldn’t bear the sentiment. She had dreamed of that once. No longer.

  She felt her lip quivering and fought to contain her emotion. She must be strong.

  ‘Are you seeing someone?’ His face darkened.

  ‘Oh, Adam,’ she laughed, tears in her voice. ‘No. We could sell the house – too big for us now.’ She couldn’t imagine leaving the house. It would be as big a wrench as ending her marriage. The babies had grown up here, learnt to walk, climbed the apple tree. She knew all the neighbours, the people in the parade of shops on the main road.

  She felt her composure crumbling. ‘We’ll need to sort things out. Not now. But I had to tell you.’ And she went upstairs, away from his consternation and his wounded eyes.

  And now in her daughter’s London home, in the kitchen with its Aga and its pretty blue-and-white tiles, pine cupboards; with her grand-daughter in her arms she prepared herself to tell Theresa.

  She saw the shock ripple through her daughter’s features, noted the unconscious movement of her hand to her left ear, waited for the questions to tumble and answered them as best she could. She was determined not to join in when Theresa began to cry, clenched her teeth fiercely around the inside of her cheeks and sniffed several times.

  They drank tea and talked and Theresa fed and changed Ella and made more tea.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘there’s something I need to tell you, as well. It’s . . . When Ella had her fits, the doctors wanted to know our medical history.’

  Kay nodded. Theresa pulled at her hair, stroking it over her ear again. Why so nervous? Was there bad news about Ella?

  ‘It’s easy for Craig, but me . . . well . . . I’m trying to trace my birth mother, to see if there’s anything on my side. I’ve got my records, my adoption records. I wanted to tell you. And there’s a letter.’