Abandoned
Love
Rosie Houghton
Copyright © 2012 Rosie Houghton
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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This is a work of fact. Nevertheless, some names of people and places have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals concerned. Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the following copyright works:
The Lord’s Prayer as it appears in Common Worship: Services and
Prayers for the Church of England (Church House Publishing 2000) is
copyright @The English Liturgical Consultation and is reproduced by
permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1780889-733
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Contents
AUTHOR
ROSIE 2007
MIRIAM 1965
MARJORIE 1965
MIRIAM 1965
MARJORIE 1965
MIRIAM 1965
MARJORIE 1966
MIRIAM 1967
MARJORIE 1967
MIRIAM 1967
MARJORIE 1967
MIRIAM 1967
MARJORIE 1967
MIRIAM 1967
MARJORIE 1967
MIRIAM 1967
MARJORIE 1967
MIRIAM 1968
MARJORIE 1968
MIRIAM 1969
MARJORIE 1969
ROSIE 1970s
MIRIAM 1970s
MARJORIE 1980s
ROSIE 1980s
MIRIAM 1988
ROSIE 1989−96
MARJORIE 2000s
FINDING MIRIAM 2007
ROSIE 2007
EPILOGUE
Author
Rosie Houghton, lives in the South of France with her husband and three children. She was educated in London and after reading Law at Kent University went on to practice as a commercial lawyer in 1992. She was a finalist in the Cosmopolitan Woman of the Year Awards in 2001. She also established her own Internet Company. In 2004, at the age of 36, she retired with her family in France. “Abandoned Love” is Rosie’s first novel based on her true story. All the documents referred to in the novel are originals.
TV appearances include, BBC1 World in Action, GMTV, Sky, ITV, Bloomberg, Radio performances, Radio 4, Talk Radio, Five Live and local radio stations.
For Ollie, Zac, Max and Poppy,
With Love.
ROSIE 2007
SOUTH OF FRANCE
NO ONE PREPARED Rosie for that day, the day that changed everything in her life. She often looks back and wonders was it just a dream?
One morning, in late May, she was sitting on her terrace, reading. The sun was beating down and she had just picked up all the leaves that had blown onto the ground. There was a slight breeze rustling through the palm trees, blowing yet more leaves onto the terrace. She couldn’t be bothered to pick them up again. She would just have to wait for them to blow into the pool and for the filtration system to pick them up.
Her husband had been in the recording studio all week. She was becoming somewhat of a studio widow these days. Time was sort of passing them by and she thought about her up and coming birthday in September, the inevitable forty. She still hadn’t started to make efforts to find her real mother who was Irish even though she wanted to. Of course, she had attempted to “Google” her but always, the inevitable “No Results Found” came up. Her adoptive mother Marjorie was now in her eighties and she just couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings whilst she was still alive. Nevertheless time was ticking. She had three children who sooner rather than later would need to know she was adopted.
There was not a cloud in the sky, but it was still not warm enough to go swimming just yet. A large dragonfly, the colour of purple sped across the surface of the water in the swimming pool. It hovered for a millisecond and then flew away again.
About midday she heard the familiar boom of the recording studio door, which meant that her husband was surfacing. He walked through the french windows clearly inspired by something.
“I don’t want to bore you with it now,” he said pulling at the zip of his jacket, “ but I’ve just done this amazing track and I don’t know where the words came from, but I can tell you, it wasn’t me writing them.”
“What do you mean?” She asked putting her book down and removing her sunglasses.
“I don’t know. It sounds like a hymn. The lyrics just wrote themselves. It isn’t like anything I’ve written before. Listen, I’ve had enough for today. How about we go into the village of Saint Paul, have a walk round the village and maybe get a bite to eat? My legs could do with some stretching.”
“Just a minute, whilst I’ll grab some things.”
She put on some shorts and a shirt and located her shoes underneath the sun bed. Her husband picked up the car keys and the remote for the alarm.
Once they got to Saint Paul, they parked the car behind the post office and started the small descent to the Place Charles de Gaulle, a beautiful square surrounded by plane trees, below where, you can hear the faint clanking of petanque players playing outside the bustling Cafe de Place. Saint Paul has always been a haven for the rich and famous. During the 1960s it was frequented by French actors such as Yves Montand, Simone Signoret and Lino Ventura. They didn’t aspire to know who these people were but it is a testament to their notoriety that there are thousands of visitors to this village. The village used to be frequented by many artists such as Chagall and Matisse and indeed many of their works can be seen at the famous restaurant and hotel The Colombe D’Or.
“I know it is a bit early for lunch and I know it is almost impossible to get a table without a reservation, but shall we see if they have got a table?” her husband said as they stood outside the entrance to the hotel on the edge of the square.
They ducked through the arch leading straight through to the terrace adorned with numerous orange and fig trees. All the tables were beautifully laid out with white tablecloths and silver cutlery. A tall man, who they recognised as the headwaiter began to approach them, a serviette draped neatly over his left arm. He was suitably dressed in a black and white uniform.
“Bonjour Monsieur, dame. Comment t’allez-vous?”
They asked if he had a table and the waiter duly scanned the reservations book on the wooden pedestal. They could see from the list that the restaurant was pretty full. They just didn’t want to be disappointed now they had mustered up the courage to ask. He picked up a pencil and scribbled on the page.
“Bien Sur!”
He muttered something about this being very unusual but that he did have a table for one o’clock if they wanted to reserve it. They confirmed they would be back in half an hour after they had
made a tour of the village.
They proceeded to climb the cobbled path through the huge vaulted entrance to the village known as the “Porte Royale” and from there onto the old ramparts consisting of tiny old medieval houses leaning against each other, surrounded by an old protective wall of ancient stones. From the top of the fortified wall they could see the shimmering Mediterranean Sea to the South and the snow capped Alps to the North. They hovered in and out of the art galleries, soaking up the contemporary art, a testament to the art lovers who adored this village before them. They walked past a fountain in a courtyard and threw some coins in for good luck. The gentle trickle of the water reminded them of the same fountain they had built in the courtyard of their house. Finally they climbed the steep steps to the Old Cathedral, which rests on the site of a Roman Temple dedicated to Mars and an earlier Mergovingian Church. They entered the confines of the Church just as the sunlight was streaming through the windows, casting a multi coloured hue over the wooden pews. They lit a candle each and said a little prayer as they often did with their children.
They then made their descent back down through the village to the restaurant. On entering the Colombe D’Or they were struck by its’ beauty. There were rows of fruit trees to the left and sculptures by Picasso snuggled in the alcoves. The table they showed them to, was in the middle of the restaurant. Rosie placed their dog underneath the table and tied her to the chair. Whilst sitting down, they ordered two “aperitifs” and started to pour over the over sized artistic menus.
The restaurant was packed as usual. They could hear the clink of the water glasses as they were removed and replaced on to the tables. There was a general hum of conversation from the other tables, which gradually got more animated as the restaurant began to fill up. The waiters would keep passing by with food orders and then they would set up a table for carving and serving. Numerous “Pannier crudites” for which the restaurant was famous for, passed by their tables consisting of a huge basket of vegetables with an assortment of charcuterie and anchovy paste.
“I know it’s not expensive but I think I’ll have the poussin.” Rosie said.
“Me too.”
The waiter took their order for the food and a bottle of Sancerre. The bread arrived and they each took a piece and carried on talking about their eldest going to Public School in England and how they would cope as a family without him. They didn’t really want him to go but he had managed to achieve a scholarship.
“ I’ve booked the flights to go to London in the next few weeks.” She said. “I think it may be the time to tell him that I am adopted, you know whilst we just have each other for company. He must suspect something. I mean he must have noticed that I am nothing like Grandma Marjorie.”
“ Just tell him gently. You know he has quite a tough exam the next day.”
“ I know. But whilst I am letting him try the entrance for this school as well, I know his heart is set on the Public School you went to.”
“ It’s the costs that are scaring me. At least with the scholarship the school will bear some of the burden.” Her husband said taking another sip of his wine.
The conversation flowed easily after a few glasses. They discussed whether they would think about moving back to England. They talked about their friends and their children’s friends, drinking in the atmosphere of the Colombe D’Or as so many people had done before them. The food arrived and they carried on talking. The laughter could be heard ascending around them as more bottles were ordered.
By the time their plates had been taken away and the dessert menus placed in front of them, Rosie noticed that some of the diners were drawing their lunches to a close. She couldn’t remember what got them talking to the couple next to them. They had a tiny little baby who kept smiling at them. The mother glanced in her direction and they both smiled.
“That’s a gorgeous little baby you’ve got there. She has been well behaved. How old is she?”
“Oh she’s three months now. Luckily she sleeps most of the time, although we haven’t been getting much sleep these days.” She replied with a hint of an Irish accent.
“I know. We’ve got three children. They are all at school at the moment.” Rosie said.
“Oh you live here do you? I should have realised with the cute dog.”
“Yes. We’ve been here for three years now. It’s been hard, but the children love it here, and you can’t complain about the weather.”
“We came to Saint Paul for the art shops,” the husband said also with an Irish lilt. “We own an art shop in Dublin.”
“Oh you must go and look at a painting we just saw in the village in an art gallery on the left. You can’t miss it. The colours are beautiful. We would have bought it ourselves, but we already have enough art at the moment. I’ve always fancied being an art dealer. I met this art dealer in the Cotswolds. He had amassed thousands of paintings but couldn’t bear to sell any of them.” Rosie said.
“Do you fancy having a drink with us? My name is Fidelma and this is my husband Nick.”
“Yes we would love to. We don’t have to pick up the children until 4 o’clock from the bus stop.”
Fidelma ordered another bottle of Sancerre.
“What’s it like living in France then?”
“Well if you accept that the entire country are out to lunch every day and that nothing gets done, then you will be alright,” said Rosie’s husband. “We’ve just been doing a house up and what should have taken 3 months has taken 3 years. Looks like the property market has gone up though so we should be alright even if it has cost a small fortune.”
“Don’t tell us. The property market in Ireland has been going bonkers. They’ve knocked down all the old properties in favour of new developments. My brother is a property developer and over the years he has made a mint buying up land and selling it on with planning permission.”
“Did you know that many of the famous artists of the twentieth century used to pay for their rooms here by donating their art for free? Have you seen the Renoirs and Picassos in the dining room?” Rosie asked.
“No we shall have to take a look when we leave,” said Fidelma.
They carried on talking and sipping their wine. Most of the diners had left the restaurant, so they ordered some coffees and digestives on the house. Something was nagging Rosie to ask the question. They were Irish. She had always known that her real mother was Irish as her adoptive mother had handed her a letter when she was old enough to understand that she was adopted and that the adoption had been arranged privately. She had been given the barest details in that letter but had never been brave enough to go in search of her birth mother even though she desperately wanted to. She had met Irish people before and had never asked the question as to whether anyone knew her mother. Maybe it was the baby, or the Colombe D’Or or the fact she was going to turn forty that year.
“Whereabouts in Ireland do you come from?” She asked.
“Just outside Cork. Why do you ask?”
A silence hung in the air as Rosie caught her husband’s eye and then turned back to Fidelma. If she didn’t ask this question now she thought, then she will never get this opportunity again. It wasn’t as if they were going to see them again? Something was niggling her to ask them the question.
“I know this may sound like a stupid question and I have never asked anybody this before and I know we have only just met, but I am adopted and because I was a private adoption I know the names of my real parents. This is surely a long shot but I’ve been told by my adoptive mother that my real mother was from Cork and had an unusual surname.”
At that moment she paused and saw Fidelma lifting out her baby from the pram and rest her on her knee. She started to bounce her gently up and down causing the baby to smile.
“What was her name?” she asked.
“Miriam Sullivan-Cody.”
Fidelma momentarily stopped bouncing her baby and looked towards Nick. She then slowly turned her head back towards Rosie with he
r mouth slightly ajar.
“Oh my God!” she spluttered “I don’t know her but I think my mother might. She’s a designer I think.”
Her husband went white as a sheet. Rosie was in shock. How could this have happened?
“Listen,” Fidelma said pulling out her mobile. “I will try and phone my mother now. She is on her way to the airport and may have her phone switched off but it is worth a try,” and with that Fidelma was punching the keys in to her phone. Rosie grabbed her husband’s hand and held it tightly. Fidelma held the portable to her ear and after five minutes or so started to shake her head.
“I can’t get hold of her.”
It was getting close to four o’clock and most of the diners had left the restaurant. The waiters were now pacing around anxiously, waiting for them to leave.
“Listen, I will give you my card and let me take down your number. I will call you the moment I hear anything. I’ve got a good feeling about this, but I need to speak to my mum. We’ll help you find your real mum.”
With that they exchanged hugs and kisses and said their goodbyes. When they got back to the house in Saint Paul they were still in shock. Her husband leapt down to the studio and produced the lyrics to the song.
The song had a beautiful ethereal quality to it.
Peace On Earth
The message I bring you is peace to you all
I hope your heart will find the way
She looked out on to the immaculate garden and pondered whether Fidelma would give her the answers she was looking for. She prayed that night that she would.
MIRIAM 1965
DUBLIN
MIRIAM THREW HERSELF down on the long, hardened oak bench in the corner of the crowded pub called O’Neill’s in Dublin. It was Friday night and all the usual crowd were there from Cork. David who had just landed a job working for the Dublin Royal Ballet, Humphrey and Pat her best friends from Macroom who had just started a catering business and of course the usual crew over from London. The room was filled with cigarette smoke. The conversations were flowing, getting louder and louder with each round of drinks ordered. The jukebox was blasting with the Beach Boys “I’m feeling those good vibrations”
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