sUnwanted Truthst

by Unwanted Truths (epub)

‘Well, you shouldn’t have put it on then, should you? Take this and wipe it off on the bus.’ Lorna grabbed the sheet of kitchen roll from Jenny’s hand.

  Jenny sighed, I bet she doesn’t. I’ll have to watch her tomorrow, or I’ll be getting a letter from the school. She walked into the lounge, opened the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out her coat and Toby’s lead. They left the cottage and turned left, onto the path that led to the footbridge. It was wet underfoot, but too early in the year for the path to be covered with slippery leaves. She bent down and released Toby, who bounded ahead across the bridge. She looked down; the rush hour traffic had reduced to a trickle. The gaps between the struts reminding her nerve endings of the agoraphobia that had never completely vanished. She gripped the handrail as sweat began to ooze from the pores on her forehead. Most days she focused on Toby to mask her anxiety, and managed to cross the bridge. But today, as her heart hammered, she hesitated and panicked. She took a deep breath and let her shoulders relax. The sign of The Swan swayed on the wall of the public house at the end of the bridge, and she thought, so near, yet so far. She looked down at the cars speeding below. No – she couldn’t do it – not today. ‘Toby,’ she shouted. He was already on the other side, but had stopped and was looking back at her, his tail wagging. He sniffed the air, and hurtled back across the bridge. Stepping back onto the path her heartbeat slowed. She bent down and patted Toby’s head. ‘Sorry, old boy, we’ll go twice round the pond instead.’

  *

  The brick built house stood on at the northern edge of the council estate. It overlooked a pre-fabricated junior school built at the end of the war. At one time the detached house would have been occupied by a family, but it had been converted in the early seventies into a social services office. Jenny glanced at a plaque on the wall that stated the opening hours and pressed the bell. The door was answered by a ginger-haired woman wearing a calf-length skirt and an even longer cardigan.

  ‘I’m Mrs Maynard – I’ve got an appointment with Mr Golding.’

  ‘If you go through into the waiting room, he won’t be long.’

  The girl ushered Jenny into a small square room with painted cream walls. She sat down on a padded bench under the window. On the wall opposite was a cork notice board covered with leaflets held on by brightly-coloured pins. Jenny eyes fixed on one, ‘Your rights if your child is removed.’ An open trunk filled with toys stood under the board.

  ‘Mrs Maynard.’ A tall fair-haired man, of about thirty, stood in the doorway opposite. A moustache covered his upper lip. He walked towards her and gave her hand a weak shake.

  ‘Do come through. I’m Ross Golding, the Children’s Officer for this patch. Please call me Ross. May I call you Jennifer?’

  ‘Jenny,’ she said.

  Ross directed her to a melamine chair, pulled a similar one out from behind his desk, and sat a metre away from her.

  ‘It must seem strange, coming here?’

  ‘Yes, it does a bit.’

  ‘If I can just explain the procedure; you’ve applied for access to your birth records.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that the law changed in 1975. Before that date, as an adopted person you were not entitled to any information about your original family. Neither would any member of your original family be entitled to any information about you. This was done to protect yourself and your adoptive family. To give everyone involved a new start. Your birth mother knew when she gave her consent to your adoption that it was final, and that she would never know your new name, or where you lived. She could get on with her life knowing, that herself and any new family she might have, wouldn’t be disturbed by her past. But, more importantly, your adoptive parents had the reassurance that all links with your original family were severed. But times and attitudes change, and we now think that must have been particularly hard on the birth mother; but any contact has to be initiated by the adult adoptee.’

  Jenny nodded, thinking as she looked at him that she had never been attracted to men with fair hair, especially ones with moustaches.

  ‘Anyway that’s why you have to have this meeting. Section 51 counselling we call it; so that you are aware of the implications for everybody involved.’ He picked up a thin beige folder from his desk. ‘Are your adoptive parents still alive?’

  ‘No, they both died two years ago,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Is that when you decided to find out about your birth family? It’s a common reason.’

  ‘Well, I certainly never thought about it while my parents were alive. I didn’t want or need to. It seemed disloyal.’

  Ross nodded and smiled sympathetically.

  ‘I’m not looking to replace Mum and Dad, nobody could. I don’t even want to meet my birth mother. I just want to know who I am. I’m settled and happy with my life at the moment, so it seems the right time.’ Jenny couldn’t take her eyes off the beige folder that lay on his lap.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. We don’t encourage people to act on the information they’re given if their lives are not going well for one reason or another. They may invest too much in the person. Some people think that by finding their birth mother, or birth father, it will make everything better for them; it might do. But it will also cause complications, and could make the person feel worse, especially if the birth mother doesn’t want to know them. That does happen. It could remind her of a difficult time in her own life. She probably married and had other children, and has never told them, or her husband, so I have to warn people of that.’

  ‘That’s doesn’t apply to me. I’m just interested in the information,’ Jenny said, wishing that he would hurry up. She didn’t need all this spiel.

  ‘So, how are you feeling at the moment?’ he stared at Jenny.

  ‘I’m fine.’ For heaven’s sake, this isn’t a doctor’s consultation, just get on with it.

  ‘I want to warn you that when people hear their original name and their birth mother’s name for the first time, it can be a very emotional moment.’ He finally opened the folder and Jenny was surprised to see that it contained just one form. He cleared his throat, ‘I can tell you that the name your birth mother gave you was Georgina Ann, and you were born at 11B, Cannon Place, Brighton.’ He paused and looked at Jenny.

  Her head spun as she repeated, ‘Georgina.’ That’s not me, she screamed inside. I don’t feel like a Georgina. I don’t even like the name.

  ‘Are you alright Jenny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother stated that she was a housewife, living at the address where you were born.’

  That’s not what Mum told me, she thought indignantly. She said I was born in a hospital and that my mother was a young girl.

  Ross continued, ‘Jenny, your mother’s name was Helen – Helen Barretti.’

  The wall opposite shifted to the side. Had there been an earthquake? Ross’s lips were moving but there was no sound. His face, large and blurred around the edge moved towards her own, and back again, several times. She felt herself slip in slow motion to the floor. His lips were still moving but she couldn’t hear any words; his face was almost touching hers, so close that she could see each blond hair of his moustache; his blue eyes; and then nothing.

  He was squatting beside her, holding a small glass to her lips. His face gradually came into focus; the moustache, and then his eyes and tight curls. ‘Sip this slowly,’ he smiled and said softly, ‘I don’t often have to produce the office brandy.’

  ‘It’s alright, I can get up now,’ Jenny muttered.

  ‘Take it slowly, I’ll help you.’ Ross gripped her arm and helped her back onto her chair, He gave her the glass, ‘Just carry on sipping. A few people have burst into tears on hearing their own and their mother’s name, but you’re the first to faint on me.’ He sat back down.

  ‘Sorry, could you tell me my mother’s name again please?’

  He reached for the folder. ‘Yes, of course, it was Helen, Helen Barretti.’

  ‘Not Ellen?’ her
voice trembled.

  ‘No, Helen.’

  ‘Is there a middle name?’

  ‘There’s not one written down here. She was a married woman, because her maiden name ‘Neale’ is shown. When a married woman has a child, her husband is usually stated on the certificate as the father, even if he doesn’t attend the registration. But there is no name here, so it appears that her husband wasn’t your father. That was probably the reason you were adopted.’

  She must be some other Barretti, Jenny thought, a relative, Brighton’s a big place.

  Ross stared at her. ‘Are you feeling a bit better now?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wanted to be away from him.

  Ross lifted the phone. ‘Sue, would you mind making Mrs Maynard a strong cup of tea? Thank you.’ He replaced the receiver and looked down at the file. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any information about the agency that arranged your adoption. Often they have more information, perhaps about your father. But sometimes in these older cases there wasn’t an agency involved. Yours may have been a private adoption, arranged by your mother’s family doctor. So, I’m afraid that’s all the information I can give you.’ He closed the folder. ‘Just one more thing; now we’ve had this meeting, you can order a copy of your original birth certificate. It will have on it the information I’ve just given you. If you feel that you need to talk about any aspect of this, you can always make an appointment with me, or there’s an organisation that’s very good. They can also help with tracing your birth relatives, if you decide that’s what you want. I can give you their number.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. There was a knock on the door and Sue with the long cardigan was standing in the doorway holding a cup and saucer.

  ‘Go back into the waiting room, Jenny, and stay as long as you need to. If you’re lucky Sue may even make you some more tea.’ He smiled at Sue who glared back at him. ‘I’ll bring the form for the certificate out to you; you’ll need to sign it.’

  *

  Jenny lay on top of the bed; stared at the sloping ceiling and digested the information she had been given. It must be a different woman, the gravestone definitely said Ellen Mary. Her head throbbed with the effort of trying to recall the day she had met Martin’s mother. She could remember the argument between Martin and Anna clearly. But the only memory of his mother was of a dark-haired woman wearing an apron with a frill around the edge, pouring out glasses of cream soda. Her face was the same as the one in Ricco’s photograph, blocking any earlier memory that she might have had. So much had happened to her in the years since Anna’s party, she would have to undergo hypnosis to recall any further details. Photographs – that’s what she needed to see. She remembered when she was separating from Robert, how carefully she had divided up their photo albums, and other acquisitions of their years together. It was as if, by being scrupulously fair, that would compensate for leaving him. She got up, went over to a chest of drawers and swallowed two paracetamol tablets with the cold remains of a mug of tea. She went back to the bed, slipped underneath the duvet and closed her eyes.

  *

  ‘Lorna said you were up here. What are you doing in bed? You look as white as a sheet.’ Martin stood in the doorway, his head almost touching the wooden lintel.

  Jenny rubbed her eyes, pulled herself up and leant against the pillows. ‘Oh, I had a terrible upset stomach after you left this morning.’

  ‘Probably nerves, how did you get on at the meeting?’

  ‘I cancelled it. I can always make another appointment; there’s no rush, not after all this time.’

  ‘You cancelled it! I came home early. I thought you’d want to talk about it.’

  ‘That’s really sweet of you.’ Jenny stared at him; his shape, his dark hair. Was that why she had been so attracted to him, and he to her; a recognition of the same, a genetic connection? Her eyes were green though. ‘Can you come a bit closer?’ He moved to the end of their bed.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As if you’re seeing me for the first time.’

  ‘You don’t regret leaving Marilyn do you? I know it hasn’t been easy.’

  ‘Of course not; we deal with problems together, don’t we? I love you. I’ve never been happier.’

  ‘Me too,’ she smiled, noticing a thickening around his waist. He had mentioned it last week, telling her that it was because he was content. ‘Did your father have a sister or sister-in-law?’

  ‘He only had the one brother, and as far as I know, he never married. Why are you asking?’

  ‘I was just thinking back to the photos he has on his sideboard. I was interested. Do you have any of yourself and Anna when you were young – and your mother?’

  ‘I think the ones I had are still at Marilyn’s. I didn’t have many. Most of them are with Dad or Anna. You don’t want them now surely?’

  ‘No, not this minute, but I’d like to see them sometime.’

  ‘Well, I’m starving, so I’ll go and get something on for dinner. Lorna’s in her bedroom, supposedly doing her homework. Do you fancy anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t want anything. Just do something for yourself and Lorna.’

  ‘Are you coming downstairs later?’

  ‘I might do. Martin – was your mum always called Ellen?’

  He gave her a puzzled look. ‘I never heard Dad call her anything else, apart from when he lost his temper with her. He didn’t call her by her name then.’

  ‘He never called her Helen – always Ellen?’

  ‘What’s all this about? No, always Ellen, look I’m off downstairs.’

  Jenny remembered Ricco had said ‘my Ellen’ when she had met him the other week, but he did have a slight accent. She waited until she heard Martin in the kitchen, and then reached for the ball of tissue under her pillow and blew her nose. Music that she couldn’t put a name to bounced off the wall that separated their bedroom from Lorna’s. Turning on her side, she pulled the pillow over her ears and shut her eyes.

  Her birth certificate arrived nine days later. She took the buff envelope to her bedroom and pulled the bolt across the door. The more she had thought about her meeting with Ross, the more she wondered whether he hadn’t said Helen Barretti at all, but Helen Barretto, or Helen Barretta, and that in her heightened emotional state she had heard only the familiar.

  Sitting on the unmade bed she ripped the envelope open and pulled the certificate through the torn edges. She saw her name Georgina Ann, written in small black handwriting in the column next to her date of birth. Her eyes focused on the writing in the next column – Helen Barretti formerly Neale of 11B, Cannon Place, Brighton. She stared at the cream painted wall, and decided that her first reaction must be right after all. There must have been another women with the same surname, especially as the certificate didn’t show any middle name. Yes, that must be the answer, she thought, in a large town, of course there could be. There are lots of women called Smith, Walker and other surnames. It was just a weird coincidence. She poured over the rest of her certificate. A single black line was drawn under Name and Occupation of Father. Her mother had put 11B, Cannon Place as her usual place of residence. So, she had been born at home, and her birth registered two weeks later. In the space at the end of the columns – as if an afterthought – was the word “Adopted” and signed H. Wade, Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages.

  She read and re-read every single word.

  ‘Jenny, Jenny, what are you doing? You’ve been up her for ages.’ The black latch was moving up and down. ‘Why have you locked the door?’

  ‘Just coming,’ putting the certificate back in the envelope, she stuffed it under her pillow and walked over to the door and released the bolt. Martin stood facing her.

  Jenny took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I’m just about to make the bed. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  ‘I came up to give you this. I found it in the letter rack unopened.’

  �
�Oh, I forgot all about it,’ Jenny said, taking the letter from him.

  ‘You’ve seemed a bit distant lately, as if you’re worried about something. You would tell me, wouldn’t you? It’s not about that appointment you cancelled is it?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll make another this week.’

  ‘Don’t forget you’re taking Lorna over to meet Robert. I hope we’re not going to have a repeat of last time, it was terrible.’

  ‘Has she said that she doesn’t want to go?’ Jenny asked, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘No, but she’s hiding away in her bedroom. You better go and speak to her. I thought we could talk about our holiday when you get back.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘I’ll speak to her in a minute. Can you get some salad ready for lunch?’

  Hearing the clatter of his feet on the wooden stairs, she took her birth certificate from under the pillow and slid it inside her handbag. She picked up a nail file from the chest of drawers, sat on the bed and opened her aunt’s letter…

  Dear Jenny,

  I know I’ve only just written to you, but I’ve got to ask your advice about something. I was planning to chat to you when you came over, but something’s happened. This may come as a shock to you, and I didn’t want to tell you in a letter, but years ago I had a daughter that I had to have adopted. I won’t go into all the details here. But I’ve received a letter from someone, not her, saying that she’s traced me and would like to contact me. So I thought with you being adopted yourself, you could tell me what she would like to hear…

  The letter slipped through Jenny’s fingers onto the floor. Normally, with news like this, she would have rushed to tell Martin about it – but not now. She didn’t even want to read any more. She picked the letter up, walked over to the chest and stuffed the letter at the back of the top drawer.

  *

  The early morning rain had passed, leaving behind a blustery wind. Jenny fought her way across The Steine and into Royal York Buildings. Passing an oblong mirror set in green and amber tiles she followed the sign along a corridor. On either side the walls were plastered with wedding banns. She pushed through the swing doors, and walked up to the counter.