Martin embraced his father, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘How are you now Dad?’
‘Could be better, could be better, but it’s good to see you both. Go through to the lounge and I’ll bring the drinks through. No one makes coffee like us Italians.’ He ushered them into a small room that looked out onto the road.
‘Dad – for God’s sake,’ Martin raised his eyebrows at Jenny. ‘Don’t take any notice of him. He plays on the fact that he’s half Italian; thinks it makes him more attractive.’
Jenny bit her lower lip and looked around the room. A gas fire was set into a tiled 1930’s fireplace. Beside the sofa in an alcove was a sideboard covered with framed photographs. Martin and his sister in junior school uniforms smiled at her. Martin’s tie was skewed to the left. Another photo showed them at about fourteen. Behind stood a black and white photo of Martin’s parents arm in arm outside a church on their wedding day, beside that, a coloured picture of them seated together at a restaurant table several years later. Jenny was reminded of her own memory of Martin’s mother. A young man in uniform, who Jenny assumed was Ricco, looked proudly from another frame. At the back were two sepia photographs of groups of people.
Martin removed a newspaper from the coffee table as his father entered the room. ‘We can’t stay long Dad. We’ve got to pick up Lorna from her school at five.’
‘She’s been camping for the weekend; Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme,’ Jenny added.
‘Martin told me that you have two children, Jenny.’ He placed the coffee cups on the table and sank with a sigh, into a chair under the window. ‘This old body of mine is not what it was – everything’s an effort since my Ellen died. Anna and Martin are good to me, but it’s not the same.’
Jenny nodded and sipped her coffee.
‘Family are very important. I can’t say I was pleased when Martin told me he was leaving Marilyn. I liked the girl. But now I see you with my own eyes, perhaps I understand a little. You make my son happy, so perhaps I should be happy too.’
Jenny detected a slight accent as he spoke.
‘Dad, that’s enough. We’re going to get married as soon as we can, so we can be a proper family.’
‘Is that you in the uniform?’ Jenny asked, nodding towards the photograph.
‘Yes, that’s me. I was good looking then. My father and Paolo, my brother, were interned on the Isle of Man. They were born in Italy, you see – enemy aliens – that’s what they were told when Mussolini declared war; even though the only weapons they had were ice creams,’ he laughed. ‘But I was born here, so I joined the air-force.’
‘My father was in the army,’ Jenny said. ‘He served for over twenty years as a regular soldier. He lost an eye in India, so he spent the war as an instructor.’ She gave a little smile as she remembered his yarns.
‘I was part of the Italian campaign – I suppose they thought I would be useful because I spoke the language. I even saw my papa’s village near Roma. You see those two photos at the back, they were taken in Palestrina – they’re my aunts, uncles and cousins – nearly all of them moved away after the war; to England or America. The older ones and some of the younger ones are dead now. Roots you know – they’re important – always a part of you, they keep you strong, grounded as they say these days. My papa used to say “A man with shallow roots is like a tree, he doesn’t grow strong. He falls over when a strong wind blows”. Have you any brothers and sisters Jenny?’
‘No, I’m an only child.’
Ricco gave her a pitying look. She looked over at the photos of his relatives. ‘Do you mind if I have a closer look?’
‘Of course not, bring them over to the light.’
Jenny lifted the two photographs and took them over to the window. She scrutinised each one. There were about twenty people in each photograph. The older ones stood at the back – men with thick black moustaches, and old women with covered heads. Mothers nursing babies sat on chairs in the front row, while the children sat cross-legged on the ground. She could see a family resemblance in the shape of their faces. The photo looked as if it had been taken in a village square. A church stood in the background.
‘We’re thinking of going to Italy at the end of October, aren’t we Jenny?’
‘Yes, we’re planning to go to Rome. I’ve got this thing about capital cities. We hope to visit Palestrina, so Martin can see where his grandparents came from.’
‘Good, good, I’m pleased. It makes me sad that I never took my Ellen back to visit my relatives. But there was no money for that back then. We were going to go when I retired, but then, it was too late.’ He brushed a hand across his eyes, ‘But at least we moved up here, she always loved it, especially the view, better than where we used to live. You going to visit your mama while you’re here?’ Ricco pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes.
‘No, Dad, not today. As I said, we can’t stay long. I visited Mum’s grave just a few weeks back. Jenny’s parents are buried there too. That’s how we came to meet again.’
‘You lived near here then?’ he sniffed hard and stared at Jenny.
‘Yes, just beyond the windmill. But that was a long time ago.’
‘A long time ago, yes, I was hot-blooded back then.’ He nodded towards the sideboard. ‘Now the fire has gone, but sometimes, when I see a beautiful woman, a flicker returns.’ He smiled at Jenny.
‘Dad, that’s enough.’ Martin finished his coffee with a gulp and stood up.
‘Come and see your old papa again soon, bring Jenny and the children if you can, so I can feel young again?’
‘Of course I will.’
Jenny followed Martin towards the door. She turned, smiled at Ricco and offered her hand. He lifted his arms to embrace her.
‘He’s sweet,’ Jenny said as they drove back along the crescent.
‘He’s alright. Goes on a bit. He was very jealous years ago, his latin temperament I suppose. He didn’t like Mum going out. He was always asking where she was going, and who with. Yet he had girlfriends. I didn’t realise it then, but I do now. There were some terrible rows. He’s forgotten about all that, gone sentimental in his old age. Perhaps when you lose someone, you only remember the good times.’
‘Yes, I think that’s true,’ Jenny said, remembering her parents. ‘You’re not like him, only in your face and eyes.’
‘No, I take after Mum’s side of the family, in temperament and height. Anna’s more like Dad.’
*
Many times during the following week Jenny thought of Ricco’s words, and the two Italian photographs. On Saturday morning she drove into Lewes and approached the library desk. She was about to speak when a man came up behind her. Not wanting to be overheard she walked away and browsed through a guidebook on Rome. After checking that no one was about, she approached the desk again.
‘Just this book, please,’ and then added, ‘I know that a few years ago the law changed so that adopted people could trace their relatives, and I was wondering if you have any information about it?’
The woman looked over her glasses. ‘Yes, I think we do, I know that the person has to be over eighteen years of age. Is it for yourself?’
Jenny reddened and nodded. The woman bent down and searched through a box under her desk. She waved a leaflet in front of Jenny. ‘This will tell you the procedure.’ Jenny saw the words “Access to Birth Records”. She grabbed the leaflet and left.
*
A raindrop fell on Jenny’s cheek as she stood outside the ringing hut.
‘I think we’ll call it a day. We’re not going to catch many birds in the rain.’ Martin looked at the ominous clouds building from the west, and placed an arm around Jenny’s shoulders.
‘Let’s go and have some lunch in The Golden Galleon,’ Jenny said.
‘Good idea. I’ll just thank the others, and tell them we’re off. Looks like they’ve already decided they’ve had enough.’ Martin walked across to where three members from the local Ornithological Club
had started to fold up the netting.
‘We finished just in time,’ Martin said, as heavy rain washed like waves against the windscreen of the Land Rover.
Jenny peered through the wipers as they bumped along the track. ‘Be careful, there’s a large flint in the centre of the track.’
‘It’s O.K. I’ve seen it.’
‘It was a good morning wasn’t it?’ Jenny said.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. We’ve ringed quite a few. I hope it was worth getting up at the crack of dawn for?’ Martin turned and smiled at Jenny, his hand stroking her thigh. ‘I thought you seemed a bit quiet on the way over?’
‘Well, I’m never at my best first thing in the morning, and I was thinking about something.’
‘That sounds ominous. Do you still want to go to Rome at half term? We don’t have to, you could go and see your aunt in Cyprus instead, I don’t mind.’
Jenny remembered when she had written to her aunt to tell her that her marriage was over, and that they weren’t able to visit as arranged. To her surprise, Doris had replied sympathetically, saying of course they were disappointed, but that she understood that she wouldn’t have taken such a step lightly, and had suggested that she visit on her own, when she was ready.
‘No, it’s not about that. I’m really excited about going. It will be lovely, just the two of us. I’ll visit Aunt Doris early next year. It’s about me.’
Martin frowned.
‘It’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll tell you when we get to the pub.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
Martin steered the vehicle over the final ruts in the track, and turned onto the coast road. Ten minutes later the wheels rattled across the wooden bridge across the Cuckmere; the rain falling like pebbles into the river beneath.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’ Martin parked as close to the entrance to the bar as was possible.
‘It’s absolutely pouring. We’ll have to make a run for it,’ Jenny said as she jumped down and held her coat above her head.
Martin placed their drinks on a table by the window, and sat opposite Jenny. ‘I’ve ordered our food. It shouldn’t be long, there’s hardly anyone here.’ He took a long gulp from his glass. ‘What is it you’ve been thinking about then?’
‘That I want to find out about my parents – my birth parents.’
Martin looked askance at Jenny. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it on and off since the summer I suppose. But it was visiting Ricco the other day that finally decided me.’
‘Dad – what’s he got to do with it?’
‘It was the photographs of his family in Italy, and him talking about his roots and how important they are. It’s funny, but I never wanted to know anything before. The thought never entered my head when my parents were alive. Perhaps it’s only now they’re dead, that I can allow myself to think about it without feeling disloyal. It’s purely curiosity. I’m not looking to replace Mum and Dad; I don’t need another mother or father. I just need to know who I am, and why I was adopted. I can’t go to my grave not knowing.’
‘Well I hope you’re not going there just yet?’ he laughed and covered her hand with his.
‘When Lorna was born, I couldn’t stop staring at her, she was the first person I’d ever seen who was related to me. Everyone else sees people like themselves all the time, but I never had. The funny thing is that Lorna looks like Robert. I remember years ago, I was going out with this boy, and when I met his father I was amazed that their voices sounded exactly the same. I’ve always remembered that.’
‘I think there must be advantages to not knowing who you are, or who you look like. It means you’re completely free to be yourself – there can be no family expectations.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right about that. I’ve never felt pressurised to do anything other than what I wanted to do, or to be like anyone else.’
‘I’m glad.’ He stroked her hand. ‘Your parents did tell you something though, didn’t they? I remember you saying.’
‘Yes – Mum did.’
‘Well, it was just after the war, wasn’t it? I’m sure lots of girls had babies they couldn’t keep back then.’ Martin stared into his half-empty glass. ‘Can you do that anyway? I mean trace them. I thought adoption was final.’
‘It is – but the law changed in 1975 to allow anyone who was adopted to be given information about their parents; only the children, not their birth mothers, or anyone else. I picked up a leaflet about it in the library yesterday.’
‘Well, as long as you’re sure that you want to know, and it won’t upset you.’
‘It’s the right time for me now. I’m happy and settled.’ Jenny smiled and squeezed his hand.
2
October 1984
Jenny fingered the letter as she spoke into the phone, ‘I’ve filled in the Access to Birth Records form and I’ve got a letter to say that I should contact you.’
‘You’ll need to make an appointment with Mr Golding for Section 51 counselling. He’s the Children’s and Adoption Officer, but I’m afraid he’s out this afternoon,’ said a woman’s voice over the phone.
‘Oh, when shall I ring back then, any particular time?’
‘He’s usually here tomorrow until midday.’
‘Tomorrow morning, I’ll ring back then, thank you.’ Jenny replaced the receiver, wondering where she could find an unoccupied room at work. ‘Wednesday,’ she said out loud, and remembered the manager’s meeting at eleven the following day.
*
Jenny reached under her desk and pulled back the zip on her bag. For the third time that morning she felt the sharp edge of the letter. ‘I need to take an early lunch today Moira, if that’s alright with you?’
A grey-haired woman of around fifty raised her eyes from the ledger. ‘That’s a good idea; beat the lunchtime rush. There’s a sale starting today at Vokins. I saw it on the way in. That’s the third this year. That never used to happen; sales were only ever after Christmas. I suppose it’s the recession.’ She rubbed her lips together as if in anticipation of the bargains to be discovered. Jenny enjoyed working with Moira, but found her nosiness irritating. She was always asking how she and Martin were coping, ‘Especially with the children,’ she would always add, reminding Jenny of precisely what she came to work to forget.
‘Yes, that’s right, beat the rush,’ Jenny said. ‘I’d thought I’d go in about five minutes. I’ll finish the bank statements when I come back.’
‘Good, you can tell me what’s there then.’
Jenny picked up her bag and left the room. She knocked gently on the door to the office opposite. No reply. She pushed it open slightly. The room was empty. Mrs Janaway had left for the managers’ meeting. They always lasted until one o’ clock, when trays of pre-ordered egg, cheese and ham sandwiches covered in cling-film would appear; compensation, Jenny thought, for the previous stultifying two hours. Seating herself behind a desk piled with ziggurats of probate files, she pulled the letter from her bag, unfolded it, and dialled.
‘Hello, may I speak to Mr Golding please?’ she recognised the girl’s voice, ‘It’s Mrs Maynard, I phoned yesterday.’ Jenny cleared her throat of the lingering remains of a head cold. ‘Hello, Mr Golding, I was told to call today. I’ve filled in an Access to Birth Records form, my name’s Mrs Maynard.’ Jenny’s heart thumped as she stared at a calendar view of the Highlands – complete with rampant stag in the foreground – that brightened the wall opposite.
‘You know that you need to arrange an appointment?’
‘Yes, I understand that. Your receptionist told me yesterday that I wouldn’t be given any information until I came to see you.’ She listened intently for any sounds outside the door. ‘It will have to be a day when I’m not at work.’ She stared at the heavy black numerals on the calendar… yes, that sounds fine… Tuesday next week at two… No, I don’t, but I can find it. I’ll see you then, thank you.’
Excitement rippled through her as she replaced the receiver. She remembered Aunt Doris’s latest letter, when she had mentioned again that she had something important that she wanted to talk to her about. Although her mother had said otherwise, she was sure that her aunt did know about her adoption. Jenny imagined various scenarios; from her mother being an aristocratic girl who having had a passionate affair with a soldier, had been forced to relinquish her baby so as not to disgrace her family; to herself being the unwanted end product of rape. She pushed the last thought from her mind.
*
‘This must be for you. There’s a Cypriot stamp on it.’ Martin handed Jenny a blue airmail letter.
‘That’s quick. I haven’t answered her last letter yet. I can’t look at it today; can you put it in the letter rack?’
‘You must be nervous?’ Martin asked as he bit on a slice of buttered toast.
‘Yes, but it’s tinged with excitement. It’s like going into labour for the first time. You don’t really know what to expect, but you hope it’s going to go well, and there’s the excitement of seeing your baby at the end of it all.’
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.’ Martin grabbed his lunchbox from the worktop and gave Jenny a lingering kiss. ‘Well, I’m off. You can tell me all about it when I get home. I’ll be thinking about you.’ As he turned around he tripped. ‘Toby, get out of the way; you’re not coming with me.’ The dog whimpered and skulked under the table. ‘Lorna, you better get a move on or you’ll miss the bus,’ Martin shouted up the stairs on his way to the door.
Jenny peered at her daughter as she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘What have you got on your eyes? Go and take it off. You know you’re not allowed mascara at school.’
‘Everyone wears it. Anyway, I can’t, I’m late. I’ll miss the bus.’
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