Fathom its depths and survive. When I’m stronger, I’ll search for her, my firstborn, my daughter Anastasia, whatever it takes. I’m not going to give up until I know just where she is in this world.
‘Meet me in Santini’s Wine Bar, the drinks are on me,’ was the message on Joy’s mobile. What were they celebrating? Joy searched her diary to see if she’d forgotten a birthday.
Connie was amazing. She’d bounced back from her op in the past few months as if it had never happened. Paul had taken her off to Crete to convalesce and now she was back in town. It was going to be like old times.
Santini’s was now on the up, she smiled, sinking back into soft leather armchairs, listening to a guitarist strumming in the corner, live music, good Italian wine and snacks, ciabatta sandwiches, salads and their gourmet ice creams. Grimbleton was riding high and The Silk Route was expanding into a whole complex of shops, cafés and tourist attractions. Kimberley was proving a good buyer with an eye for upmarket home accessories. She lived with her boyfriend, Mark, and their two children. The dynasty was secure.
Su had a granny flat in the barn conversion after Jacob died, and the Waverley was finally sold. They had bought the old farmhouse close to the business. Harry Tindale, Joy’s partner, was out in Bali tracing some fabulous carved furniture for the shop. Life was good and all the better for Connie being back among them. When her sister fell sick, it had been such a shock. The ‘it happens to someone else, not one of yours’ had struck home with a vengeance. Over the years, they’d fallen in and out with each other over stupid things but now they were closer than ever and she couldn’t wait to see Connie bouncing back to life again.
Rosa struggled to get in her car with her sticks. Transferring from chair to seat took a bit of negotiating but she needed no excuse to hit the town tonight. Connie was home and it was a girl’s night out, plus Neville. Time for the Silkies to hog the best sofa in Enzo’s emporium and drink to Connie’s permanent recovery.
Connie’s life-changing experience was a second chance. Rosa knew what it was like to feel she’d got her life back, however restricted, and however painful it could be if she overdid things. Marty hovered over her like a clucking hen now that he’d retired.
They had built a studio from their garage where he still did some recording work and encouraged young hopefuls to make tracks. He’d picked up one or two stars in the making and passed them on to agents. Amber was in the States, flitting around LA. So far there’d been no breakthrough in her film career but Rosa was hopeful.
‘I’m getting as bad as Mamma Mia with her press cuttings,’ Rosa had confessed to Amber. ‘Funny how the stage had struck into the next generation, Mamma would’ve been proud.’
She missed Maria now she was gone, those long nosy phone calls, her gossip, her sparkle, and Sylvio had shrunk at her passing. No one worries about you like your mother, and once she’s gone, that link with past generations goes with her too: Valentina, Marco … Sicily; just sepia photos in an old album and the Olive Oil Club of the 1940s. Only Lily and Su were left now, but Rosa determined she must remember to write down the names of all those relatives and friends for Amber.
Santini’s was looking smart, with tubs of flowers at the door and hanging baskets. No one lived in the flat upstairs where she was born. The street was pedestrianised, but with good disabled parking, full of benches and signposts, and the King’s Theatre was now an arts complex with a cinema, the Little Theatre and meeting rooms.
They still held a dancing display there at Christmas, a modest affair, given the size of the auditorium, but the parents packed it out to see their little darlings perform. The Rosa Santini School of Performing Arts had broadened out from a mere dancing class. It was more profitable to cash in on the celebrity culture and wannabe X Factor little stars with singing and drama classes. Rosa’s role was mainly administrative now, but she had discovered a few budding acting careers and TV stars in her time.
Funny how it all came back to Santini’s and the story of the lost pram, the two war widows, and the search for Mediterranean food in war-time Britain. They’d grown up with those stories. How times had changed. Now their own girls were dreaming dreams for the grandchildren in this very same place and after a few bevies the Silkies’d be comparing ailments by the end of the evening. There was nothing like a night out with friends!
Paul cleared away the plates from the outside table. It was one of those balmy summer evenings in late July when the sun was resting on the patio of Lane House, lingering over the wine and bowls of strawberries from the kitchen garden. Connie watched him sidle away, leaving her alone with Alex and Zoe, as they had planned. It wasn’t often they got them on their own without their other halves but she needed to break her news to them gently.
‘You look so well, Mum,’ Alex offered. ‘The rest in Chania did you good.’
‘I know, and it gave me lots of time to think about things too. You know I believe this happened for a reason,’ she said, taking in a deep breath, seeing Zoe squirm.
‘No one knows why breast cancer develops, Mum. There are risk factors, of course. You were just unlucky.’ Ever the Doctor, Zoe jumped in, as Connie knew she would.
‘I’m not so sure. Have you heard the saying, if you don’t weep, your body weeps for you?’
‘That’s just psychobabble!’ Zoe again. ‘What have you to weep about? You and dad have a lovely life, a good job and a beautiful house …’
Connie smiled. Trust a daughter to tell it how she sees it. Sons are gentler on their mothers. Zoe was straight to the point.
‘It wasn’t always like that, though. There was a time when I hadn’t a friend in the world and not a bean, with everything collapsing round my head.’
‘You never said,’ Alex said. ‘When was that? I don’t remember.’
‘There was a life before you were born, you know.’ She smiled at her handsome son. ‘When I was fifteen I lost my mother and I went a little wild.’
‘A sixties rock chick, yes, Auntie Joy told us,’ Alex said.
‘What Joy didn’t tell you, because she didn’t know, was that I got pregnant and had a baby in 1964. It was a brief fling with someone who’s now dead but I had to give her away.’ There, her secret was out of the bag and the sky hadn’t fallen down.
No one spoke and she bowed her head. ‘It was your dad who delivered her. One of those strange coincidences in life no one can explain.’
‘I see,’ said Zoe not able to look her mother in the face. ‘Who else knows?’
‘Only my grandma Esme Auntie Lee and Su were told, Neville and his father. It was a different world then, you have to understand. Respectability was everything and the Winstanley name wasn’t to be sullied again so I had to do what the family thought best. When they changed their minds it was too late. I had to sign her away, my little girl. I only kept her for a few weeks but I had to do what was best for her too. Now I want to find her before it’s too late. I feel I need your blessing before I begin.’
‘Oh, Mum …’ Zoe cried, rushing to her side. ‘How awful, how sad … And all this time you’ve kept it to yourself?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t know how I’ll find her but I want to have a try. You are the first to know what I’m planning.’
Her children wrapped themselves round her, crying.
‘Oh, Mum, you have to find her,’ Alex said. ‘Now I have little Esme-Kate … the thought of losing her … How could they be so cruel to you?’
‘They thought they were doing it for the best all round. Hushing up everything, sending me away – that was how it was done. You young ones have no idea how it was then.’
‘Now it’s so different. My surgery is full of girls wanting the morning-after pill or an abortion. It breaks my heart to see girls as young as twelve, pregnant because of some drunken dare or ignorance. No one cares a hoot, and that’s just as bad. And yet, Mum, I know it sounds strange but I always sensed there was something.’ Zoe sniffled, searching for a hank
y. ‘I’ve always felt a gap between us … as if there was something unspoken, something hidden inside you I couldn’t reach. I thought it was me you couldn’t take to yet I knew that wasn’t true. It’s almost a relief to know this.’ Zoe drew up her chair and put her arm round her mother with concern.
Connie felt her tears dripping but she needed to explain.
‘I’ve learned that when something is unspoken, it doesn’t disappear but it grows ever larger, like Banquo’s ghost hovering, a silent presence; the absent face in the photograph more powerful than the ones you can see. You know Joy and my history, but it was hidden from us. I badgered my mother for facts when she was so ill. I have blamed myself ever since for forcing things into the open so I do the opposite to you. Can you forgive me?’
‘For what? For goodness’ sake, for something that happened long before we were born, in another time and place,’ Alex said.
‘We’ll help you find her, if you want to. I can go on the Net.’ Dr Zoe was back in control. ‘It just wouldn’t happen today, would it? Marriage is an option, not an order. Look at Joy and Harry. They’ve never tied the knot but I suppose that was because of her first husband.’
‘Thanks, both of you, but this is a journey I must make on my own for as long as it takes. There may be nothing at the end of it but tears, rejection and regrets. That’s when I’ll be needing your support. Besides, you must both give yourselves time to get used to the idea of having a half-sister. Pass me a glass, I need a stiff drink.’
‘You’d better let me drive you to town, in that case,’ said Alex. ‘We don’t want the local magistrate done for drink driving.’
‘Neville’s doing the honours. He’s going to hold my hand while I tell the others tonight. They have a right to know. His mother tried to make us marry when she found out he was gay! The stories I could tell you – but I think I’ve shocked you enough.’
‘Believe me, some of the things we got up to behind your back would shock you rigid,’ Alex winked at Zoe. ‘Secrets in the family: the soaps have nothing on us.’
Connie sank back, relieved to have come clean. It had gone better than she’d hoped but it was early days for all of them. The journey had hardly begun and now she must face her oldest friends, backed up by Dutch courage.
Joy sank back into the sofa speechless. What a turn-up! How could they not have guessed? Connie’s disappearing act for all those months, the family confabs behind closed doors and her absence from the christening, it all made sense in hindsight. Her own mother, sworn to secrecy for all these years, had never even hinted at Connie’s plight.
‘I wanted to tell you both,’ Connie confessed. ‘I nearly did, once or twice but …’
‘I was a wreck after Kim was born. I would’ve been useless,’ Joy offered.
‘And I was off swanning round the world with your ex-boyfriend … It’s not Marty’s child, is it?’ Rosa was like an arrow to the bull’s-eye.
She could have hesitated and hedged her bets but Connie was not going down that route. ‘I had a fling with Lorne Dobson!’
‘Old swivel-hips. You know he died, poor Dobby?’ Rosa added.
‘Yes, I heard.’ Connie wanted no complications. The baby must be his and his alone.
‘So, now what? Where do you go to find her?’ Joy said. ‘The Internet?’
Connie nodded. ‘Would it were that simple! There are tracing agencies, I can contact, lists to explore. I’ll find my way somehow. I just don’t want to withhold any more secrets from you. Neville’s known from the beginning, and that’s another thing. Tell them, Nev.’
He launched into a hilarious account of that terrible Christmas when Ivy went berserk. There was always a funny side to family dramas in hindsight. The line between tragedy and farce was very thin. Neville told the story with such drama, not missing a detail. How glad she was to have had his support for so many years.
‘This is better than EastEnders,’ Rosa laughed.
‘Where do you think they get their plots from?’ Neville quipped. ‘Life is much more bizarre than fiction.’
‘Let’s drink to you finding her and soon, Connie. You deserve some luck.’
They raised their glasses yet again. It was going to be a long and boozy night. Connie sat back with relief. All who mattered to her knew. Whatever the next months would bring, she’d not be alone on this strangest of journeys into the unknown. Who else but friends and family would give her the courage to face whatever was ahead?
30
Anastasia
Connie began the journey at first with such enthusiasm, buoyed up by everyone’s encouragement: searching the Web for the right agencies, contacting old colleagues from her brief social work career to ask for guidance. It was like a journey without a map reference, just a few signposts along the way.
Once she had a name it would be easy to find an address, but she knew that was the wrong approach. It was all right some mother turning up on the doorstep in a TV drama but it never worked in real life unless you were very lucky.
There were cul-de-sacs when her search bore no fruit. No baby was born on the day she gave birth. The West Riding was no more and the records scattered. In her mind’s eye it would all be straightforward, but doors shut and she began to despair.
‘Keep going,’ Paul said. ‘We just haven’t opened the right ones yet. It’ll happen, you’ll see.’
‘Have you tried the National Children’s Home archives, the Church of England Children’s Society or the Catholic adoption agencies?’ Everyone was being so helpful, so curious. She’d tried them all, to no avail. Furthermore, her own name was not on the list of children seeking to find their birth parents. That was a real downer. It was then Connie realised how late she’d left things. But it was only recently that birth parents had the right to go in search of their adopted children. At least she could put her own name down on that list, just in case.
It was time to dig deep into reserves of determination and obsession to make her dream come true. Anna was out there somewhere, not knowing how hard Connie was looking, but was it all too late?
It was Zoe who broke the deadlock. ‘I’m not breaking confidentiality here but I have a patient, about your age, who was on the same mission. She found her child through Barnardos. It’s worth a try.’
‘They’re one of the last on my list. Thanks. Can I ask how she got on?’
Zoe hesitated, looking at her mother with those piercing blue eyes. ‘Not very well. She went through all the processes. They made contact with her son but then he decided he didn’t want to meet her or have anything to do with her. His right, of course … Mum, you have to be prepared. She’d built herself up and now, well, you can guess. Sorry, that’s not what you want to hear, is it?’
‘I guess that’s not unusual and I’m trying to brace myself for rejection, but at least I’ll know she’s alive and well. I’ll have to be satisfied with the fact I made the effort.’
Connie smiled, putting a brave face on this news. Better to get on with her chores and duties and follow the lead, even if it led to the dark valley of despair.
Next morning she found the number to ring, made a tentative enquiry, listened to the implications of trying to trace her child, left all the relevant details with the agency, then went to visit Auntie Lee and Uncle Pete, who weren’t well.
‘I’m glad you’ve gone in search of your baby. I never agreed with Mother, as you know. We had a falling-out. I think the timing was bad for her and I know she regretted it to her dying day.’
This was news to Connie. ‘What did she say?’
‘“I was too hard on the girl … I let her down. We should never have let her give the baby away. I hope the Good Lord doesn’t hold it against me.” Then she smiled. “Our Connie’s a Winstanley. She’ll not give up on one of her own. Happen it’ll be right one day.”’
They sipped tea by a roaring fire and Connie felt enveloped in their concern and love. The shelves gleamed with all Pete’s trophies, photos of him with footb
alling heroes of yesteryear: Bobby Charlton, Tom Finney and Nat Lofthouse. Arthur was now coaching the local juniors. He’d never gone as far as his dad but was a teacher at the independent grammar school.
Connie took herself round the shops just to cheer up her flagging spirits but her purse stayed closed. She was in no mood for such compensations.
At least her borders were getting a good weeding. All the tension of the past weeks drew her from the tyranny of the phone, out into the fresh air to flowers and shrubs, and the effort to keep on top of the veg plot. After forty, went the saying, women go for God or the garden, and she was putting all her energies into redesigning her flowerbeds. It took her mind off her disappointment, and when the phone rang she strolled to the one in the potting shed. Doctors have to have phones everywhere when they are on call.
‘Is that Constance Jerviss, née Winstanley?’ a voice said.
‘It is. Who’s speaking?’ Not another sales plea from a charity?
‘Is this a convenient time? I’m phoning on behalf of Barnados.’
‘I’m in the garden …’
‘I hope you’re sitting down then. We’ve found a match!’
Connie collapsed on the sack of potting compost. ‘Are you sure?’
The voice gave date and place of birth and date of the signing of the adoption papers. Everything tallied. ‘What happens next?’ Connie croaked, too shocked to take in the rest.
She’s found, my daughter is found!
Oh, that life was so simple! She told only Paul the good news. She walked around the house hugging it around herself. The first stile was mounted into a green field where they would meet and be friends and live happily ever after, but this was 2006 and there are forms to fill and processes to go through, turnstiles and checks, and it was like trying to get through Manchester Airport after a bomb scare. She must be scanned, tested, counselled, and it all took time. She must wait for a counsellor-cum-mediator free to take on both parties, if needed, to act as a go-between, a liaison officer, a wise woman to guide them both through the path to a meeting place, and there was none free. It was all going to take months. Connie wanted to scream with frustration. I can’t wait that long. What if my cancer comes back?
Mothers and Daughters Page 37