That day her adoptive mother picked her up from the school gates and Miss Price came over. She told her mother that it had been a bit fractious on the first day, but that she was sure she’d settle into school life soon.
“She looks so like you Marjorie.”
Her adoptive mother beamed in response. No she doesn’t, Rosie thought. She looks nothing like her. Even her mannerisms didn’t fall in to sink with her own. She made her hair short when she wanted it long. She made her wear boys clothes when she wanted dresses.
They drove home in silence in her beloved mini. All the other children were picked up in smart new motors. Why did her adoptive mother have to drive a clapped out mini?
She couldn’t attach any blame to her adoptive mother for the situation they found themselves in. She was only a child at the time. From the outset she had been honest with her and though no one relishes the prospect of being adopted, she supposed she ought to be thankful for that.
In many ways she had a privileged upbringing. She was brought up in suburbia North London, in a nice detached house close to her school. In those days they were entitled to a freedom that we can little afford our children today. She would cycle to the park with her friends and play imaginary worlds at home. She was an only child and so spent a lot of her childhood on her own with her adoptive mother for company. She would encourage her to go out and make friends, something she neither had the confidence or the competence to do herself. As a result, she grew up a confident person with all the insecurities of adoption.
It wasn’t just that she was adopted, It was the fact that her adoptive mother came from a different era. Her adoptive mother had grown up with the insecurities of a child showered with love. With her adoptive mother it was just Rosie and her. She was the artistic one who loved to design and draw. She wanted to listen to contemporary music, which had rhythm and soul. Her adoptive mother would be drawn to classical things, things from a bygone era.
Christmas was a difficult time because her adoptive mother had no family to speak of. Maybe it was the Irish in her, but she longed for Christmas to be a more gregarious social affair.
She was required to change schools three times as a result of moving houses, before her adoptive mother settled on a private school in North London. This was when she was introduced to music. The school bus which took an hour at least used to play Radio 1 at full blast to and from school. Until then she had been subjected to Radio 4 and the odd bit of classical music. By the end of her first year, she had got herself a best friend. She was from a largely dysfunctional family with five brothers and a sister. She was no more embarrassed by her family than Rosie’s. They weren’t the wealthiest kids in school, but that suited them fine. Many of their friends wore Rolexes and Cartier rings to school. Some had holiday homes in Marbella. They were content to take the Underground to Oxford Circus and stroll around Top Shop for hours on end.
On one such Saturday, they were on one of these outings in the West End. They hopped off at Oxford Circus Tube Station and mounted the escalators. They were both very skinny, wearing the shortest skirts they could get away with. As they burst out in to the sunshine and the crowded street on the Circus, her friend said.
“I fancy going to Our Price, by Bond Street. There’s a new single out called “Tainted Love by Soft Cell, I really want to get it.”
“OK then. I fancy the new Spandau Ballet single.”
They edged along Oxford Street negotiating the people coming in the opposite direction. She loved coming to the West End to browse through all the latest fashion shops and record shops. Everything seemed so fast when you came in to Central London. People to see, places to go.
“It’s very busy here today. Where do all these people come from?” She asked.
“Beats going to Brent Cross though. It’s so much cooler.”
Suddenly there was loud explosion. It shook the whole street. They could hear the sound of shattered glass in the distance.
“What was that?”
“I think it’s coming from the Wimpy. Look down there.”
She strained her neck to see the damage over the mass of people. There were flames coming out of the glass fronted restaurant. Slowly screaming and hysteria set in. People started running about everywhere. Then sirens came as hundreds of Police Officers descended on them.
“I think we’d better get out of here Rosie!” her friend screamed.
“Do you know how?”
“Lets start walking towards Baker Street.”
They grabbed each others hands and made a dive for the nearest side street. They could now feel the pressure of the people pushing behind them. Everybody was desperate to get out of the disaster zone. They were only young and to be honest, quite lost down those side streets.
“Are you alright girls?” a policeman asked them.
“Yes we’re OK” Rosie said. “What happened?”
“Suspected IRA bomb miss. Blown up the Wimpy Bar. It’s not safe here right now. I suggest you get as far away from the scene as you can.”
They trudged up Baker Street and then past Regent’s Park on their right. They then carried on walking to Swiss Cottage. They were exhausted, but at least they were safe.
“I think we had a narrow escape there Rosie. We could have been killed!”
Yes she thought, killed by her irish ancestors, no doubt. She still hadn’t told any of her friends that she was adopted. She hadn’t met anybody else in the same situation and she knew that she couldn’t really start doing anything about it until she was older.
Another friend she made at the time was on the school bus. She invited her to go and stay at her family’s time share in Mijas Costa, just outside Marbella in Spain. She envied her normal family. They spent a lot of time in Puerto Banus and the then newly built Sotogrande where another friend of theirs had a luxury apartment.
One day they walked along the quay at Puerto Banus, gazing at the white washed houses tumbling in to the sea. The boats were moored up in the harbour and there were plenty of well groomed people from the jet set parading the restaurants. These were people who were proud to be seen, unlike her adoptive mother who liked nothing more than to stay holed up at their house. They very rarely had anyone come over to visit and on the rare occasions they did it was usually just one person such as her Aunty Joy or her Uncle Charles. Her adoptive mother did not like social confrontations at all and certainly wouldn’t be seen in fashionable places for fashion’s sake.
“I wouldn’t mind having nice things one day.”
“Me too.”
Her friend was lucky to have a mum and dad, she thought. She didn’t come from a dysfunctional family.
“Aren’t you glad that your parents are still together?” She asked her one day when they were sipping their cokes at a bar.
“God no! I’m the only one in my class who doesn’t have divorced parents.”
That was part of the problem. She knew lots of people whose parents had separated or were going through a divorce.
There wasn’t a day that went by during those years that she didn’t think about contacting her real mother. Her adoptive mother was now in her sixties. Her dilemma was how would this affect her adoptive mother? Even though her adoptive mother had met her real mother, she never told her much about her. She did tell her that when her father died that her real mother had threatened to take her back.
By this time in her life she had stopped bringing friends home, preferring to see them on their own turf, so she wouldn’t have to suffer any embarrassment. Despite moving house many times her adoptive mother would always manage to make the property look like something out of the dark ages. The same ancient furniture would be installed. She had no time for interior design. She would delight in appliances if they didn’t work marvelling on the fact that she was useless with technology. In contrast her friend’s parents were proud when they redecorated their homes with new curtains and fabrics and new furniture. She knew her adoptive mother was not normal in this
respect. The advent of television had helped in that aspect.
Her adoptive mother was older now and her eccentric behavior was even more enhanced. She didn’t care that lots of people thought they were doing a favour to someone when they were adopting them. The reality was very different. She knew that her inherent genetic make up was different. You didn’t adopt the practices of your adoptive parents, you yearned to find the true you.
One morning her adoptive mother and Rosie were sitting at the breakfast bar at their house they had moved to in North London.
She used to dread these mornings. Her adoptive mother would often turn off Radio 4 when she sat down, leaving them to stare at the blank wall with a spot light, casting a shadow in the silence. She could hear a pin drop on these mornings, whilst her mother was crunching her toast.
“You know, you can always contact your real mother, Miriam, when you are eighteen, don’t you darling? I know it seems a long way away, but I wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t need to mum.”
She never spoke much of it again. She knew to do so would destroy her. She wasn’t sure that if she started the process, that she would like what she saw. She didn’t know if her parents had remarried or had families of their own. Looking back, whilst she had been given the barest information about her parents, she hadn’t been told the whole story. Had she been, she would have been in contact.
MIRIAM 1970s
IRELAND
“ SO MIRIAM, WHAT do you think of my proposition?”
She was sat up curled on David’s sofa in a dingy dressing room behind the stage. The floors were wooden and worn. The place smelt of sweat and talcum powder. This was the retreat the ballerinas would come to when they wanted to moan about the evenings’ performance. David was a tough choreographer and only expected the best from his dancers. At the moment they were performing his rendition of the Nutcracker. After months of rehearsals, they were finally going to perform their first show. The door would open and slam shut as dancers would come in to ask for last minute ribbons for their shoes.
“I don’t know David,” she said, dragging on a cigarette and taking a small sip from a glass of whisky that David had given her.
“I’ve only just got started. At the moment, I have four girls working for me, but what you are asking me to take on is fourteen costumes for five different scenes for next season, which is going to take months to get right!”
“Listen Miriam, I know you can rise to the challenge. This could be the making of you.”
She knew instinctively what he was saying made sense. Since the adoption, she had decided not to go back to the cruise ships. There was no point in running away from things forever. Neither could she stay in London. She couldn’t afford or bear to be in the same city as her daughter. The memories were too painful. Ireland was her real home. She had decided to take on a small flat in Cork, just off Hanover Square. She had then advertised for four seamstresses on the promise that David would provide her with some freelance work to start off with from the theatre. After each rave review, David’s profile was getting bigger and bigger as were the demands for more costumes. She was excited if not a little daunted by the challenge. She poured herself another whisky.
“Can you persuade the company to give me some form of advance? That way I can keep my head above water and give you the best I’ve got.”
David was rummaging round in the drawers on his dressing table, trying to find the manuscript.
“There it is!” he exclaimed throwing his gesticulated fingers in the air and then promptly plunging himself on the sofa beside Miriam with theatrical abandon. He then grabbed her whisky tumbler and put it on the table beside him.
“That’s what I like about you Miriam. You always want to drive a hard bargain.” He retorted with a giggle.
“Perhaps, if you could just rustle up some drawings for us, I can show them to the board and put a financial proposal to you. You know I chose you because I believe in you.”
She smiled. David even though he was gay, had always had a soft spot for her. Ever since her demise with the pregnancy he had made sure that she was well looked after. He never asked any questions. She thought he just assumed she had, had an abortion. He had rustled up a sinking fun, which he had sent to her in London. She had never used that money, preferring to give that to her sister so she could buy clothes for Charlotte. Ever since her return to Ireland, he had been instrumental in inspiring her to set up the dressmakers.
Suddenly the door burst open and the frailest of dancers waltzed by, shimmering in her ballet costume.
“We’re on in five minutes David.”
“I’d better go Miriam. See you backstage, when the performance finishes.”
“Break a leg.”
She didn’t need to see the performance as she’d seen it many times before. It always amazed her how moving ballet could be. The music would sometimes bring tears to your eyes when you least expected it. The gentle hum of the Orchestra before the performance to a crescendo at the end. Each instrument, playing its’ own part. The sets were always breathtaking and the ballet dancers, so graceful. She longed to be able to dance like those dancers. Their frames were so fragile. She swore she never saw them eat anything. The male dancers, of course were heavily vetted by David. They would never fail in their loyalty to him.
Whilst Miriam sat back stage, she could feel the tension of the cast, as they carried out every change of scene. There would be a lot of shouting and screaming going on. She tended to stay out of David’s way, as she knew tempers would get frayed. Whilst the audience would see an effortless performance, there would always be some slip up that the cast made sure was never spotted. The endless changes in costume, meant that whatever she designed for them, would have to be durable and able to last many performances. They would also have to be in a pliable fabric to allow the dancers to breath.
She took out a sketch book from her art case and sharpened a few pencils. She idly drew the silhouette of a dancer and then started to shade the arms and legs. For the first costume she decided to wrap the dancer in waves of chiffon, adding a bow at the back at the base of the spine. For the second, she drew the shortest butterfly skirt with an embroidered pattern around the rim. David popped in briefly between acts.
“I like those,” he said bending over the sketch pad. “The more avant-garde, the better.”
She continued to draw more dancers, as the performance wore on. Inspired by the music, which she could hear in the background, she drew some pictures of male dancers in skin tight costumes. She would become completely lost in those drawings, as if time stood still. By the time she had completed the last drawing, she could hear the thunder of applause from the audience.
“It’s a wrap darling!” David exclaimed, as he burst in to the dressing room, a myriad of dancers still passing him in the corridor.
“Let’s go and celebrate!”
By now it was just past 11 o’clock. The only bar still open was a small pub around the corner, where all the cast used to hang out after the performance. Miriam grabbed her coat and her drawings and applied some lipstick. David picked up his keys and a packet of thin cigars. After shouting various orders out at everybody and at the same time offering his congratulations, he put his arm around her and led her out of the stage door. There were a few flash photographers outside getting photographs for the next morning’s Irish Times.
“That will give them something to talk about!” he laughed, as they entered the crowded pub next door. “If only they knew!”
They sat down in the corner and the barman brought them a bucket of champagne.
“To us,” he exclaimed as they clinked their flutes.
From that night on she buried herself in her drawings. If she was happy with a design she had come up with, she would take a piece of fabric and cut out a design to the drawing. She would then sew it together on her Singer sewing machine. When she was satisfied, she would take it to one of her girls who would come and work at he
r apartment and they would put together the prototype. David got her an advance of six hundred pounds, which was more than enough to start off with. Sometimes, he would pass by on his way to a performance and see how they were getting on. He nearly always approved of the costumes they were making and would only criticize if he thought the fabric was too heavy or uncomfortable for the dancers. Their first commission was for Swan Lake. In some respects this was an easy commission because they couldn’t depart from the classical theme. However they only had six weeks to produce sixteen costumes for four acts.
“Don’t worry darling. Whatever the costume, it is the dancer’s responsibility to pull off the performance.”
“I know, I just want the production to be perfect.”
“If you make a mistake, it won’t stop me commissioning you.”
There were mistakes. On that first performance Miriam suffered what could only be considered a dressmaker’s nightmare. As she sat in the audience, looking at the dancers, all the costumes started coming apart because she simply hadn’t put enough gusset in the tight chiffon sleeves.
“I’m so sorry David. One of my dressmakers was not good enough.” She exclaimed.
“Oh don’t be silly, darling, the audience loved it. It is the first time a tragedy has turned in to a comedy. I’ve never laughed so much in years.”
Over time she went on to design for most of David’s productions which were now taking him further afield to Dublin and London.
One Saturday morning she was sitting in the kitchen nursing a mug of coffee, when she heard the phone ring.
“Hi Miriam, it’s me David. I’ve got a fantastic commission for you. I had to use all my powers of persuasion though.”
“Oh David, don’t tease me.”
“You’ve only got to design the entire costumes for the latest production of “ The Boyfriend” at the Everyman Theatre in London!”
“Holy Mother of God, you didn’t tell me you had pitched me on that one! I thought they would give that commission to someone like Tony Kelly!”
Abandoned Love Page 18