by Linda Green
I left the words to penetrate for a moment.
Chris looked at me, his eyes locking on to mine as if he might plummet from view without them. ‘So it’s definitely her?’
‘She told me the date. You were actually born on Valentine’s Day, not the fifteenth. She even has a lock of your hair …’ I paused and reached down to the floor for my bag. ‘I also went to the library and found a copy of the Courier, from the day she left you. Just to make sure it all tied up. I’ve got it here, if you want to have a look.’
I took a photocopy out of my bag and held it out to him. He hesitated before taking it, turning it over and staring at the photo of the baby underneath the front-page headline: ‘Shopping bag baby abandoned outside doctor’s’.
Chris looked up at me. ‘This is me.’
I nodded. ‘I know. I cried when I saw it. I cried a lot.’
Chris read it before looking up again. ‘Did she say what time she left me?’
‘About half an hour before you were found. She knew what time they opened. She made sure you’d be safe.’
‘Did you tell her? About me, I mean.’
‘No. I wanted to talk to you first. I don’t have to tell her anything, if you don’t want me to.’
Chris blew out and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s such a massive thing. I don’t know what to do. What if I don’t like her?’
‘You would. She’s nothing like your mum, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She goes to WI meetings, paints watercolours, has her hair done regularly. That sort of thing.’
Chris nodded slowly.
‘She’s about my height, I think. Average size. Wears glasses. It’s hard to say if she looks like you. I’d never noticed it before, obviously. Maybe a bit, around the chin, but that might just be because I was looking for it.’
Chris sat for a while.
‘Did she tell you everything? About why she did it, I mean.’
I nodded. ‘She was incredibly brave. Her mother wanted her to have an abortion. She couldn’t bear to let that happen. So she ran away from home to give birth to you.’
‘At sixteen? Jeez,’ said Chris.
‘She hasn’t seen her family since,’ I said.
‘Did she tell you how it happened?’
‘Yeah. Although it wasn’t an easy story for her to tell.’
‘Was she …?’
I nodded, helping him out. ‘It was her sister’s husband. One night when she’d been babysitting for them.’
Chris shut his eyes.
I squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.
I sat with him, still holding his hand for a long time before he spoke again.
‘Did she tell anyone one?’
‘Only her mum, after she found out she was pregnant. She didn’t believe her, though. Or maybe didn’t want to believe her.’
Chris looked down at the table. ‘Has she got a family of her own?’
‘Yeah. They’ve got a daughter who lives in Australia. She’s expecting a baby in February.’
Chris sat for a while longer.
‘So what happens now?’ he asked.
‘That’s up to you. She’s coming to see me again on Thursday, once she’s told her husband.’
‘He doesn’t know?’
‘No. She was too embarrassed to tell him. Thought he’d think badly of her. That’s why they’ve been having problems.’
Chris shook his head. ‘Do you think she’d want to meet me?’
‘Yeah. I’m pretty sure she would.’
‘I don’t know how Mum would feel about it.’
‘She’s fine with it,’ I said. ‘I already checked. I wasn’t trying to interfere or anything, I just knew you’d ask. She’s happy for you to do whatever you think is best.’
Chris blew out and looked up at the ceiling.
‘Barbara will always be your mum, love. Nothing’s going to change that.’
‘I know. It’s a weird thing, that’s all. Deciding if you want to meet the woman who gave birth to you.’
‘You don’t have to make your mind up now,’ I said. ‘Sleep on it, if you like.’
‘No. It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I know. I think I’ve always known. I just never thought I’d get the chance.’
‘Is that a yes?’
Chris nodded. ‘As long as you’re there too.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I will be.’
* * *
When Jayne came in on Thursday morning her eyes were brighter, her step lighter; she even managed what appeared to be a genuine smile.
Bob smiled too. In a way I’d never seen before.
‘Lovely to see you both,’ I said. ‘Please, do sit down.’
They did as they were asked. Jayne placed her handbag firmly on the floor next to her.
‘So, have you had a chance to discuss things since Monday?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Jayne. ‘We have. Bob took it very well.’
She said it as if he’d had every right to be angry with her. Her whole demeanour still reeked of guilt. I wondered how many years it would take to get rid of that. If, indeed, she ever would. I turned to Bob. He had a pained expression on his face.
‘How did you feel, Bob?’
‘Angry. At him, for doing that to her. And for getting away with it. And sad that Jayne hadn’t felt able to tell me before, instead of suffering in silence all these years.’
‘You understand why she didn’t, though? That it wasn’t that she didn’t trust you.’
‘Oh aye. People didn’t talk about this sort of thing in our day. Everything were swept under carpet. Can’t say it did anyone much good, mind.’
‘And now you do know, does it change anything?’
‘I feel awful about what she’s been through,’ said Bob. ‘But I suppose it’s also a relief to know what were causing our problems. I understand it all now. And I know it’s not me what’s upset her.’
‘He’s a daft bugger,’ Jayne said. ‘He thought this were all about me not being happy with him.’
‘Obviously a lot of feelings have come to the surface here, a lot of misunderstandings, and it will be good for you both to talk those through over the coming weeks. I need to tell you, though, that after having a discussion with my supervisor, I’m afraid I won’t be able to continue as your counsellor after today.’
‘Oh,’ said Jayne, her face dropping for the first time that morning, ‘that’s a shame.’
‘I know, and I’m really sorry about it, but there’s a professional reason why it wouldn’t be ethical for me to continue working with you.’
They both looked at me. It was a moment or two before I could get the words out.
‘I know who your son is, Jayne,’ I said.
She stared at me, her brow creased. ‘You’ve traced him?’
‘No. No, I didn’t do anything at all. I didn’t have to. I’d heard the same story, you see, but from the other side. From someone who’d been abandoned as a baby outside a doctor’s surgery in Halifax.’
Jayne’s mouth dropped open. ‘One of your clients?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s not, actually. It’s someone I know personally. If you don’t want to hear any more, I completely understand. We can leave things there. A new counsellor will take over and support you through it all. You’re only just starting to come to terms with what happened, and you may well feel that it would be too much to take things any further at this stage.’
‘No,’ said Jayne, her voice trembling. ‘I want to know. I’ve always wanted to know. He’s my son. I need to know that he’s OK, that he’s happy and healthy.’
‘He is,’ I said.
She shut her eyes for a second. I heard her long, deep outward breath.
‘If you’d like to get in touch with him by letter, or meet up with him in person, it is possible to arrange that. And a colleague of mine will help to support you through it.’
‘He wouldn’t want to meet
me, though, would he?’ said Jayne. ‘Not after what I did to him.’
‘He does.’
She stared at me and shook her head. ‘He’s probably just saying that. People don’t like to admit how they feel, do they? He probably hates me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.’
‘He doesn’t,’ I said.
‘How can you be so sure?’
I hesitated before replying, but I felt it would help Jayne to know.
‘Because he’s my husband.’
Jayne stared at me. Her eyes bulged wide. She put her hand to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry it’s come as such a shock,’ I said. ‘It was quite a shock for me too when you told me.’
‘You’re quite certain it’s him?’
‘Yes, the dates tie up and everything. Obviously, if you wanted to have DNA tests done, that could be arranged. Or you could do the whole thing through Social Services, get them to check their adoption records.’
She shook her head, still looking utterly bewildered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no need, is there? Not if you’re certain.’
‘I am.’
‘So, you’re my daughter-in-law?’
‘Yes. That’s why I can’t continue being your counsellor, you see.’
‘Well I’ll be jiggered,’ said Bob. ‘I didn’t see that one coming.’
I smiled at him. At both of them.
Jayne was the first to speak. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Chris,’ I said. ‘Chris Bentley. The doctor’s receptionist who found him was called Christine, that’s why they chose it. On his original birth certificate he was given the surname of Illingworth, but the couple who adopted him changed it to their surname.’
‘Are they still alive?’ Jayne asked.
‘His adoptive mother is. His adoptive father died several years ago. He had a very happy childhood with them and he’s still close to his adoptive mother.’
Jayne turned to Bob, and a smile flickered on to her face. ‘I’ve found him,’ she said. ‘I never thought it possible.’
Bob smiled and reached over to grasp her hand.
‘Have you got a photograph?’ she asked me. Her voice had a note of childlike excitement.
I reached for my bag. I had thought she might ask. I handed her a photograph of Chris and Matilda I’d taken on holiday the previous year.
A gasp caught in her throat, her hand trembled as she held it, and a moment later she was crying, properly crying. So much so that Bob took the photo from her and put it on the coffee table to stop it getting wet. We sat either side of her, holding a hand each, as if pumping forty-four years’ worth of pain and suffering from her.
‘He’s still got his hair,’ she sobbed, ‘he’s still got all that lovely dark hair.’
I nodded and smiled and brushed away my own tears.
‘The little girl?’ she asked.
‘Your granddaughter, Matilda. She’s nine.’
Jayne grasped hold of the rest of my arm. Her whole body was shaking. I put my arms around her. The woman who had given up everything to give birth to the man I loved.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘Because if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have either of them.’
‘How will I explain to her why I abandoned her father?’
‘You won’t have to,’ I said. ‘We’ll do that for you. And we’ll tell her that giving up your child so they can have a better life is just about the most selfless thing you can do.’
Bob handed Jayne a tissue from the box on the table. She smiled at him and blew her nose. Took another and dabbed at her eyes. I decided not to tell her about Josh. Not yet, anyway. This was her moment of joy after so many years of hurt. I didn’t want that tainted for her. There’d be plenty of time in the coming days and weeks to fill her in.
‘So do I take it that you’d like to meet him?’
She bit her bottom lip and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I would.’
I found out he leaves comments on loads of pages on Facebook. Like the BBC Look North one. They’d posted a photo of their new weathergirl and he’d left a comment saying ‘Probably would’. When I checked back, he’d done hundreds of them, any time someone posted a picture of a relatively attractive female. One of them was only fourteen, for fuck’s sake.
So I packed my bags then and there. Left a note for him on the kitchen table. It said ‘Probably wouldn’t’.
30
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked Chris.
We were sitting in his car, which was parked outside our house. We hadn’t gone anywhere yet. He hadn’t even got as far as putting the key in the ignition. But already it seemed like a very long journey.
‘What if I don’t like her?’
‘It’s not obligatory to like her.’
‘No, but usually guys who don’t like their mothers are complete wankers.’
I smiled. ‘Remember what Tania said? You might not feel anything at all for her. That would be perfectly normal.’
‘It doesn’t seem right, though. Feeling nothing for the woman who gave birth to you.’
He still hadn’t used the ‘M’ word. Maybe he never would. It belonged very firmly to Barbara. I understood that, and I suspected Jayne would too. It was only Chris who seemed to feel bad about it.
‘It really doesn’t matter what you feel. What’s important is that you’re giving her the chance to meet you.’
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right,’ said Chris. ‘You usually bloody are.’
He was smiling as he said it. I smiled back.
‘She’s going to be overjoyed to see you. It’s her moment, you don’t have to do anything or feel anything, OK?’
He nodded. Pulled his seat belt across. Started the engine.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
We’d agreed between us that the first meeting should be at Jayne and Bob’s house. It needed to be somewhere private, and my counselling offices were too formal. Besides, I was off their case now. This was a personal thing.
They lived in Brighouse. The sort of neat 1930s semi-detached which I had been expecting. We pulled up behind their Rover on the tarmac drive. Chris took his seat belt off. Let go of a long sigh.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ I said. ‘Just be prepared for the fact that she’ll probably be very emotional.’
He looked at me and nodded. We got out of the car and stood on the doorstep, Chris holding the bouquet of flowers he’d bought in town. He rang the bell. It started playing ‘Greensleeves’.
Chris turned to me, unable to suppress a smile. ‘Do you reckon there are gnomes in the back garden as well?’ he whispered.
The door opened. Bob was standing there, his face running through the whole gamut of emotions, like some weird computer game where you have to click on the appropriate expression for the moment.
‘Hi, Bob,’ I said.
‘Hello, Alison. And you must be Chris.’ He offered his hand.
Chris shook it. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.
‘I take it those aren’t for me?’ said Bob, pointing at the flowers.
Chris managed a polite smile.
‘Come in. Let me take your coats. She’s in the lounge.’
I stepped inside. It felt as if we were waiting for an audience with the Queen. Jayne wasn’t doing it to be grand or aloof, though. I suspected she was actually rooted to the spot through sheer terror.
We followed Bob into the lounge. Jayne was sitting in an armchair in the corner. She stood up. Her eyes locked on Chris. She bit her bottom lip and blinked furiously. I looked at Chris. Heard a stifled sound from inside. And a second later they were embracing in the middle of the room. I couldn’t be sure who had moved first or how fast. But they were now locked together. Both crying, both holding on very tight.
I turned to Bob. Smiled at him through blurry eyes and squeezed his shoulder. He nodded in acknowledgement. We both knew this was their moment. We were merely onlookers. Although we also knew that our lives woul
d be changed irrevocably by this.
It was a long time before anyone said anything. It was Jayne’s voice which finally broke through the tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Chris, pulling away slightly and clasping his hands. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did.’
He shook his head. ‘Ali’s told me what happened. You haven’t got anything to apologise for.’
‘Yes, I have,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s unforgivable, what I did to you.’
‘What, gave up everything just to give birth to me? I owe my life to you. That’s pretty amazing in my book.’
‘I couldn’t look after you, not on my own,’ said Jayne. ‘I was worried that, if I’d kept you, they’d have come and taken you away from me. Taken you back to live with him and my sister. And I couldn’t bear that, you see. Not after what he did to me.’
She took a tissue from the pocket in her blouse and wiped her eyes. The sixteen-year-old girl seemed so close to the surface that I could almost see her, peering anxiously out of Jayne’s eyes.
‘Thank you,’ Chris said. ‘You did the right thing. I was brought up by wonderful parents. I couldn’t have been happier, really. And even when they told me about what had really happened, I didn’t hate you. I have never hated you.’
Jayne started crying again. Or rather, started a fresh round of crying; she had never really stopped. Bob sat her down on the sofa. Chris sat on the other side of her. Jayne still had hold of his hand.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not normally this emotional.’
‘There’s no need to apologise,’ I said. ‘This is massive. And it’s all happened very quickly.’
‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ she said to Chris. ‘I didn’t even dare picture you in my head.’
‘That’s probably a bit of luck,’ Chris said. ‘You might have been disappointed.’
Bob chuckled. Jayne was perhaps going to take a bit longer to get used to her son’s sense of humour.
‘You look like my father,’ she said. ‘He had hair like yours.’
‘So I don’t look like –’
‘No,’ said Jayne quickly. ‘Not at all.’
‘Good,’ Chris said. ‘I was worried I might. And that it would upset you.’