by Anna Maxted
Greg would get back to me with her address, and first I’d go and spy on her, see what she looked like, watch her go about her business, and then I’d write to her. The Adoption Reunion Handbook listed the advantages of going through an intermediary, but I was gripped by a compulsion to reach her myself. Yes, it was probably sensible to be cautious, and slow, but I had no patience. My rational mind was no match for my racing heart. In fact, I barely trusted myself to spy on her. I saw myself tumbling out of the car and running across the road and flinging myself on her. Or even walking calmly towards her and saying, ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the library, can you . . . ?’ but I wouldn’t finish the sentence because she’d stare at me with this hunger, and we’d gaze at each other, feasting on every detail, and she would know it was her baby come back.
I’d composed my letter. Or rather, I’d recomposed my letter. My first letter, written before I’d read her letters wasn’t . . . entirely suitable.
Sarah Paula,
You’ll remember me as Jane Susan. Excuse me writing – curiosity got the better of me. I realise we are strangers, and I have no desire to intrude on your life. However, there is an interest to see where I came from – in a strictly biological sense – and I would like to speak with you. You may decide against this – however, I would be grateful if you would do me the small courtesy of a response either way.
Sincerely,
‘JS’
I’d read it out to Mrs Hershlag. George had blabbed, and actually it was good to have her support. She felt for Mummy, but she felt more for me. Mrs Hershlag was immersed in being a mother to the extent that it informed her whole world, and so to her I would always be, in some sense, ‘a motherless child’. She could hardly bear the thought of it, and was almost as keen as I was for this tragedy to be rectified.
She’d said, ‘Oh, Cassie. That’s a nice letter. But . . . well, dear . . . it isn’t really, is it? I think it’s healthy to get all the anger out, very positive. But I do think if I was your mother and I received that, well, I might think about putting myself under twenty-four-hour armed guard. It’s just a thought, but maybe that can be your first draft?’
Dearest Sarah,
I hope you don’t mind me writing. God, I hope you don’t. My name is (or was) Jane Susan, and I think I may be your daughter. Well. In fact, I know I am. I am settled and happy [I’d got that bit from The Adoption Reunion Handbook, I presumed it was code for ‘I am not a nutter’] but I would so love to see you again. To tell you the truth, it is all I think about. I only read the letters you sent to the adoption agency recently, and saw the Star of David, which is why I haven’t written before. I feel stupid for that. Just so you know, I went to Cambridge and I am a successful barrister. I think you would be proud of me. Oh! And my new name is Cassandra Gabriella Montgomery – but don’t worry, I’m not too posh! I had a reasonable upbringing. My adoptive parents are fine, and I have a fabulous sister, Lizbet – one day, I’d love you two to meet. The thing is, I miss you, and I have always missed you. I hope that doesn’t scare you, but from what you say in your letters, I feel confident that it won’t. Actually, I don’t feel confident, I feel sick, but, I can still dream. A lot – everything – rests on this, for me. I hope, for you too. I understand that you have your life – and I have mine – but I need to be with you, to see you, to touch your face. I almost crossed out that bit, as I don’t want to scare you off, but if you are the same person who wrote those letters about me to the agency, I know that scaring you off would be impossible. Despite what you had to do, I want you to know that you are more of a mother than I have ever had.
With all my love, and hope,
‘Jane Susan’
I didn’t show that letter to anyone. I knew what they’d say – ‘Oh, tone it down, be a little more circumspect’ – and I couldn’t blame them, I’d have said the same, if I was them. But, you see, I had toned it down. So much. Also, they didn’t know Sarah Paula; they hadn’t read her letters. It might seem begging and desperate to those who didn’t realise, but I knew that to my real mother it would seem, if anything, reserved.
When the doorbell rang that night, I thought it was George, forgotten his key, but it was Greg.
‘Hello! This is a nice surprise!’
‘Cassie,’ he said, ‘I came because I found her.’
‘Oh my God, I knew it, I knew you would! You didn’t have to come, you could have rung! Come in, come in – don’t just stand there – you look all serious, standing there – like a police detective with . . . bad news . . . with . . . news of . . . oh no . . . oh no, no . . . please . . . Greg, just, go . . .’
I tried to shut the door on him but my strength left me and I sank to the floor and he edged inside and crouched beside me.
‘Oh Cassie,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘Oh, Cassie. She died last year. She just . . . died. I . . . I’m so very, very sorry.’
Chapter 10
There was other family but I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want new cousins, a grandma, and an aunt – aunts are ten a fucking penny – I wanted my mother, and I knew that if I met them, I’d resent them for living when she was dead. I’d barely be able to meet their eyes for the disgust I felt. Greg said, ‘They toast you, every year, on your birthday, girl,’ and I felt a pang. My hands itched and I was back to wanting to give Sarah Paula a slap, a slap for having a crappy weak heart and abandoning me a second time.
Greg wanted to stay with me, but I made him go. He asked me to ring George – who was out with the cast for an end-of-recording drink – but I didn’t want to see George, complacent, ungrateful George with a full complement of loving parents. George would try to give me a hug, the last thing I wanted in the world. He’d say he was sorry, but privately, he’d be relieved. My skin felt prickly all over and I couldn’t stand to be touched. I wanted to get away. I needed acres of sky, and I saw myself running across that rippling meadow, alone.
I picked up the letter that I’d written to Sarah Paula and folded it in half, and again, and again, until I couldn’t make it any smaller, and then I made a gargling noise in my throat and threw it at the wall. I stood up, took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and smoothed my hair and skirt. I washed my face, drank a glass of ice water. I retrieved the letter from the floor, and jammed it in the box containing her letters, and the other documents. And then I shoved the box underneath the bed, with enough force for it to go ‘thunk’ as it hit the wall.
It was 6.37 p.m. I considered walking to the corner-shop and buying ten Marlboro Lights. I needed a smoke. I’d quit about ten times, but it was a habit that could be resurrected in an instant. I fantasised briefly about the taste of smoke on my tongue, filling my lungs with delicious poison. I stared out of the window. The garden looked cold and still as if it were holding its breath. There was a small tree in the middle of the lawn with ugly yellow-green leaves, and I felt a rip in my chest. I found George’s gardening axe in the shed (a present from a friend, never used), and started to hack at the tree.
Tap tap! ‘Darling! Darling! Lady Cassandra of Montgomery! What the fuck are you doing?’
I glanced up to see my neighbour, Peter-the-hairdresser, leaning out of his bedroom window. He looked concerned.
‘Chopping – hah – down – hah – this – hah – TREE!’
‘Er, hello – protective goggles, Cass?’
‘Don’t – hah – care – hah – don’t – hah – care!’
‘You will when a woodchip flies in your eye and blinds you, love. Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t stand it, I’m throwing you my Oliver Peoples.’ He paused. ‘And I’d lose the heels. It’s just a thought.’ I didn’t reply. He shook his head and shut the window. Then he opened it. ‘Ok. I’m a fag, what do I know about tree-felling? But here’s a tip. Start with the smaller branches, OR THE TREE WILL FALL ON YOU!’
Chopping down a tree was harder than it looked. The axe kept sticking in the bark. I staggered about with the effort, and spat my hair out of my face. The sweat stung m
y eyes and tasted salty in my mouth and I wiped my forehead on the sleeve of my Karen Millen pink wool jacket. I panted as I hacked, ‘Fucking – hah – hate – hah – you – hah – stupid – hah – bitch!’
I wasn’t even sure who I was referring to. Fate probably. My hands were blistering like bubble wrap, and my arms, shoulders and back ached, but I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t making as much impact as I wanted, so I took a ferocious swing at the trunk, lost my balance and tripped. I sprawled on the grass, and the axe went flying, slashing my palm. I crawled in the dirt, gasping, for a bit, then staggered to my feet. My hand was already slippery with blood. There was no pain, but I couldn’t catch my breath, I was panting, quick and shallow, like a cat.
Peter’s window flew up and he yelled, ‘That’s it! I’ve had enough, I’m coming round!’
‘No, don’t,’ I whispered, but he ignored me. The tree still stood there, crooked, ragged, but upright, mocking me, and I gave a shrill scream and flung myself at it. There was a sickening crack as the trunk split, an ominous rustling, and a thud as it hit the ground.
Peter bandaged my hand, and made me a cup of tea – which I never drink, only coffee with full-cream milk – but I gulped it down. When he saw me up close, he stopped joking around.
‘Did George leave you?’ he said, and I shook my head. ‘I didn’t think so,’ he sighed. ‘It’s something terrible, isn’t it?’
If I was going to tell anyone, I would have told Peter – he was a man who had people rolling out their family secrets before he’d so much as taken a snip at their fringe – but I could barely form a sentence. I felt myself closing up small and tight like a mussel, folding away all the bad feeling deep inside. I was ashamed. I disgusted myself. That letter I’d written – pathetic. There was a sense of having made a ridiculous exhibition of myself – for nothing. I was like an actor, blabbing to everyone about my brilliant audition for a starring role, how I was certain the part was mine, fame and universal adoration were round the corner . . . and then I didn’t get it, and everyone was laughing at me. Who had I told about Sarah Paula? Thank God, not Lizbet. But I had told Greg. Mummy and Daddy. George. His parents. It was a failure. I couldn’t shake the sense that if Sarah Paula had loved me enough she’d have forced herself to stay alive.
Peter ran me a hot bath, and asked if there was anyone he could call. ‘Apart from George, obviously.’ (Peter disliked George, ever since Peter and his partner, Scott, had got drunk one New Year’s Eve and showed us their teddy bear collection. They’d had mugs printed up with photographs of Red Ted on them, and George had laughed, not in a nice way. George was therefore the only person in Peter’s acquaintance who didn’t receive a title. If he hadn’t been so bloody rude, he’d have been Lord George of Hershlag. As it was, he was plain George.)
I shook my head, even as I thought, Lizbet. Lizbet bumbled her way through life, hoping for the best and never getting it, she wasn’t competent. And yet, she was the person you wanted when you felt like this. You didn’t need her to do, you just needed her to be. But I couldn’t tell Lizbet about Sarah Paula. Lizbet saw me as confident and successful, and I knew she was proud of me for that. I didn’t want her to see me a mess. Her admiration was important to me, I had no wish to come across as weak. I also didn’t want her to feel rejected. Because she would, if she knew the truth, in so many ways. I didn’t want her to feel less.
Peter left me with a brimming glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, his mobile number, and the kitchen broom (‘if it gets too much, bang on the wall’). I lay in the bath, in two inches of hot water – I dislike being submerged – and stared at the wall. I was alone, one small girl, alone in a big, mean world. It wasn’t fair. I could have had someone who looked like me. I felt sick as I thought of all those people, growing up in the bosom of their natural parents, blithely taking for granted their family resemblance. I grew up looking like no one.
I clenched my jaw. It had been my marvellous magical secret – she’s out there somewhere – and I’d clutched the knowledge to me like an invisible shield. And now, pfft! Gone. Vanished. For ever. I sniffed. I could have had my own family, my own real family, I could . . . I sat up in the bath. I still could. And I wasn’t talking about aunts.
When George eventually made it home – ‘Helena is such a laugh, we get out the lift in Bush House, a mouse runs in front of us, she doesn’t blink, and you know after a few drinks she’s not that plain, though I couldn’t shake the thought that if I sniffed too hard she’d smell’ – I was waiting for him. In my red La Perla Frou Frou babydoll, with black Frou Frou thong, Prada heels, and a spritz of Jo Malone Verbenas of Provence cologne. The axe was back in the shed.
‘Hi,’ I said, throwing down Home Cinema Choice (the UK’s ultimate home entertainment magazine).
He goggled at me. ‘You look – sex. I mean, sexy.’
I tilted my head back in the armchair, and closed my eyes. I could just about feel my lashes causing a draught. My hair was piled on top of my head, Roman-empress style, and my face was caked in subtle make-up. (George, in his innocence, believed that ‘really pretty girls don’t need to wear make-up’, and I once overheard him tell a friend, ‘My wife never wears make-up, and if she did I wouldn’t have married her.’ I could only presume he was bigamous and referring to his other wife. I’d thought it sweet at the time. Now, in the cold light of my new reality, I reassessed and found it offensive.)
When I opened my eyes he was still standing there, staring.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘Should I . . . shower?’
I fluttered my eyelashes and tried not to sound annoyed. ‘George,’ I said. ‘Do whatever. But rush.’ The last word came out as a hiss.
George gulped. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ He grinned, and took my hand. I smiled back, and tried to feel it. What I actually felt like was booking myself into a hotel so exclusive that it had no other guests and all dealings with staff were executed via computer. Ideally, the staff wouldn’t be people, they’d be robots. But I didn’t even feel up to socialising with machines. They’d probably bitch about me behind my back. (‘She was so stiff and unnatural, I mean, is she even, like, human?’)
Over the next twelve months, George and I went upstairs a lot.
Nothing happened.
Except, George lost half a stone.
And I joined the ranks of women who, for no apparent reason, can’t.
I’d always liked my body. It was slender, tanned easily, my legs were long, my waist was small, my bust was fabulous, and I was never going to have a problem with arm flab. Short of flying, my body had always done everything I asked it to do. Now, I despised it. It felt useless and pointless, like a painting of a flower. I spent a fortune on balconette bras, and padded plunge bras, and frilly briefs and camiknickers, and lured George to the bedroom, day after day, night after night, but it felt like a sick joke. I was a prize turkey, in ridiculous frilly paper leg cuffs.
I stopped seeing other women in terms of beauty. I saw them in terms of fertility. George and I watched a film where an actress took off her top, and my first thought was, ‘Those look like they’d be good for lactating.’ Every person in the world had a baby except me. I read that if you spent time with a baby, it sent positive vibes to your womb, so I took a day off work to play with Justin, the five-month-old son of my boss, Sophie Hazel Hamilton. He was fat and jolly, bald as a coot, with big blue eyes, and he shrieked with laughter at the very sight of me. When I hugged him he snuggled into my neck, breaking my heart into a thousand pieces.
Sarah Paula, you gave up this?
It was like trying to perform magic. I stopped drinking coffee. I wouldn’t even have a glass of red. I tried hypnosis. Acupuncture. Reflexology. I ate mostly organic anyway – George insisted. (I was the perfect suburban wife: the highlight of my week was the delivery of my box of organic root vegetables.) I put on weight. I lost it. George stopped enjoying sex and became resentful of being frogmarched into the bedroom. Once he was done I had no use for him
, and he knew it. He wanted to have a baby but in the same way that he wanted an LCD TV. He didn’t need to have a baby, the ache of absence wasn’t eating at his soul until it felt like a husk.
And then my sister announced she was pregnant.
Chapter 11
The possibility hadn’t even occurred to me. Lizbet couldn’t stand babies. She wasn’t maternal. She preferred cats. She had a cat – what was it called, Sphincter? The cat was her baby. It ate fresh Atlantic prawns from Marks & Spencer, and like the babies of many Hollywood stars, it slept on a pink cashmere blanket from Chicstuff.com. It had a better standard of living than most people. How dare she get pregnant? Just buy another cat, Lizbet. She didn’t deserve a baby. She had no idea about babies.
Even as the word formed in my head, I felt my insides ooze molten in desire. Baby. Ah, there’s nothing in the world like a baby. The solid warm chunkiness of a baby, the absolute perfection of the body of a baby, the look of an angel in a dreaming baby, the magnificence of a raging baby, the awesome purity of a baby’s smile, the musical coo of a social baby, the businesslike look of a baby drinking, the sly Pink Panther eyes of a baby on the edge of sleep, the hilarious toothless gums of a baby, the fabulous fatness of a baby’s face viewed from below (the eternal question – when do the cheeks become chin?) . . . all of it left her cold. She’d step over a baby in the gutter.
It made me sick. The neighbour had asked her and Tim to be godparents – that laughable potty design had them all fooled – and the first time Lizbet babysat Tomas, she begged me to be there because she was scared. I think she was actually proud of being useless with kids, disliking babies. It was a pose to show the world that she was far too modern to further the species. Yeah, dying out – cool. I’m not even convinced she believed her own hype. It was a defence. She saw her child-bearing hips as a mark of the devil. She was insecure, and a lot of her life was show.