Fretting was pointless. I could do nothing about any of it, could I? He knew who and where I was. I still knew nothing about him, bar the scraps of information Frances Holmes had given me. If he decided not to follow through – for whatever reason I could conjure, be it crazy or rational – that would be the end of it. There would be nothing I could do.
So I kept trying to carry on – go to work, eat, sleep, function normally, appear normal – shored up by blind optimism and Michael’s steadying presence. Though he counselled me not to get carried away, in one thing he was confident: my son would be in touch. ‘He will be,’ he kept telling me, as each day went by without a letter. Perhaps he was worried that he’d sent me spinning too far the other way. ‘Stop worrying, sweetheart. He will,’ he kept saying. ‘He wouldn’t have come this far if he didn’t mean to see it through. You must know that?’
I knew that. But still I fretted, and not only about myself; I also fretted about Katharine. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to tell her what was happening, as I was well aware I wasn’t myself. I was jittery, preoccupied and overemotional, and I was finding the burden of the secret hard to cope with. No, I’d not told her about Paul – there’d never been any point because there’d never have been a benefit. But now that my secret ache had become flesh and blood – her flesh and blood – it felt all wrong, morally wrong, to keep it from her.
She knew there was something going on, though. It had been unusually warm and balmy for early February that year, almost springlike, and I’d taken to spending periods lying on the hammock in our garden. It was one of those big swing seats, more like a swinging sofa, really. It had a big overhanging canopy and canvas side panels, which kept the cold out, and it had a wonderful view of the orchards and woods beyond the garden.
I was lying there one afternoon, trying and failing to read a book, when having returned home from school early, she came out and found me. She was in her uniform but she had her own distinct style. She had long hair, very thick, which she rarely tied back, and though she’d gone through a slightly alarming ‘grunge’ stage at fifteen, she was beginning to change into an elegant young woman. She wasn’t a follower, either, preferring to go her own way. While everyone else seemed obsessed with Oasis and Robbie Williams, Katharine would be listening to PJ Harvey. She plopped herself down on the seat beside me, and began to swing it back and forth.
‘Hello, darling,’ I said, as she leaned across to kiss me. ‘Good day at school?’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Same as yesterday, pretty much.’ Then she turned. ‘Mummy?’ she then asked. ‘Are you okay?’
I began swinging the seat with her. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Are you sure? Only I was wondering. Has somebody upset you?’
I shook my head, conscious of how closely I was being scrutinised. ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Not at all, no, everything’s fine. Busy at work, of course. A bit tired, but no, honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Only you don’t seem yourself,’ she persisted. ‘So I wondered if, you know, there was something that’s upset you.’
I racked my brains for something I could make up that would be sufficiently plausible to put her mind at rest, and came up with nothing. Oh, this was killing me. I so wanted to blurt it all out.
‘Honestly,’ I said again. ‘I’m fine.’ She didn’t look convinced and I hated myself for deceiving her. We’d always been so close. Were so close. And then I hit upon something that was true. ‘Though you know what?’ I took her hand. ‘I am fretting. Just a little. About your exchange trip to France.’ She was going to Lyon in a couple of weeks, as part of her A-level course, French being one of the subjects she was studying. ‘Feels like such a long time, ten days,’ I said. ‘And you’ll be so far away.’ I stood up, pulling her with me. ‘And I’m going to be worrying about you.’ I would be too. I’d be just like this while she was away. I always was. ‘I know I’m just being silly,’ I said, as we headed up the garden. ‘But you know what I’m like. Come on, let’s go in and have a cup of tea, shall we?’
‘Honestly, Mummy,’ she said, apparently satisfied. ‘I’m seventeen!’
And then, finally, the torture was over. On 3 February, another letter dropped on the mat. I arrived home from work and there it was, waiting for me, presumably having come in the second post.
It was a bigger envelope this time, brown manila and typewritten, and when I picked it up I could tell there were lots of pages in it. I couldn’t stop myself. I ripped it open and pulled out the contents.
Inside was a short letter, which was once again from Frances, telling me that she had now enclosed a letter from James, and that she also had his address and phone number on file, so that if I wanted to I could now contact him directly. She also told me that I should not hesitate to contact her, in any case, if there was anything I wanted to discuss, or if I was worried about any difficulties that might arise, particularly in regard to telling Katharine.
I paused, put that letter down and scrutinised the other – a second envelope, cream this time, not brown, with just the word ‘Angela’ handwritten on it. I felt the bulk of the letter in my hand. It was so fat. Just knowing that made my body flood and tingle with adrenalin. It was fat in that way that letters used to be in my childhood, in the days of pen pals, long missives and Basildon Bond.
Now I did take my time, even though my fingers were already trying to get the better of me again. I put the letters down on the hall table, along with the other post, a couple of bills, carefully nudging aside the vase of flowers and telephone that both sat there. I then took off my coat, hung it on the newel post, replaced my door keys in my handbag and then, swinging the bag back onto my shoulder, picked up the single cream envelope and took it into the kitchen.
Monty was waiting for me, as he always was, tail wagging furiously, so I put the letter down on the table and made a big fuss of him for five minutes, before unlocking the utility room door so he could go outside. I then made myself a cup of tea, pulled out a chair from under the table, sat down, took a sip and picked up the envelope again.
I took my time opening it, not wanting to rip something so precious, and pulled out a letter and two photos. It was the photos that I attended to first. I pulled them out – they were face down – and slowly turned them over, revealing first a picture of a man who no person, however persuasive, however adamant, however definite, could ever have convinced me wasn’t my son. I could see Peter, if only fleetingly, in the shape of the head and the angles of his face, but the likeness between the two of us was so arresting it made me gasp out loud. Oh, God – here he was! My baby! He was real at long last! All those years of imagining what he might look like, and here he was. I could hardly believe my own eyes.
I had wanted so, so much for him to bear evidence of me. And he did, he so gloriously did. He looked very much like me, like my brother Ray, so much one of us, so like Katharine – how much, I couldn’t wait to show her! Everything about him was very obviously like us: the height – he looked so tall! – the olive skin, the smile, the dense black hair . . . It was so strong, this family resemblance, that it made the back of my neck prickle. Here he was, the grown-up version of that tiny baby I’d had to part with. If I’d been overcome in the aftermath of reading Frances’s first letter, it was as nothing to the wash of emotion I was drowning in now.
The other photo was of him again, this time with an attractive young woman: his wife, perhaps, or an adoptive sister? It was hard to say, but they looked close. But I would find out who she was, I realised; it would all be in his letter. I propped the photos by my mug. Now I could devour the letter, which I did.
It was the Cambridgeshire address that caught my eye first. Cambridgeshire, I thought with a jolt – such a long way away. But then I scolded myself. I should be grateful. It wasn’t that far. I was lucky. He could have lived anywhere, couldn’t he? The North of England, Europe, Australia even. But instead it was Cambridgeshire – not so very far.
My ey
e travelled a little further down. The letter was pleasingly thick in my hands, running to several closely written pages. As with a novel you start reading and immediately fall in love with, I didn’t want to leap ahead and spoil the ending. So I didn’t flick through it, or count the pages. I didn’t wish to know. I just unfolded the letter, as I had done with the ones from Frances, and gazed upon it, this letter from my son.
His writing made me start, it was so lovely to look at: such elegant handwriting, gently right-sloping cursive, the tails of the tailed letters all finished with a uniform loop, lending it an air of such grace. It was silly to dwell on style over substance, perhaps, but I felt like you do when you see anything that is decorative and also very meaningful – a wedding cake, say, or the structure of an important molecule, something beautiful to feast your eyes on as well as your other senses, or like a holiday, perhaps. Some of the pleasure of a holiday, surely, is the sense of anticipation you get from poring over pictures in a brochure, and the promise of the reality to come?
Most of all, I felt an overwhelming sense of maternal love. How could there not be, knowing that these words had been written by my child? Was it any wonder I wanted to savour them carefully? They were the first steps towards knowing the man he had become.
I gripped the letter in both hands and began to read.
Dear Angela,
Since speaking with Mrs Holmes late last week, I have been looking forward to writing this letter, but have been unsure what to write and so perhaps this might arrive later than I would have liked.
I have decided to write openly, as my feelings dictate, so I apologise if the letter appears disjointed. It seems strange to be writing to you after all these years, although I must say I have often thought about you, hoping you were okay and that you were settled and had a family of your own.
My mother and father had explained to me as long ago as I can remember that I was adopted, telling me that my ‘real’ mother wasn’t, for whatever reason, allowed or able to keep me and had therefore put me up for adoption. I knew your name was Angela Brown and that you had named me Paul – my name incidentally is James Paul – that I had been born in Epping and that you were a translator and were tall, dark and attractive.
My parents loved me more than I can say, and my sister Vicky was also adopted through the Crusade of Rescue. I even had ‘my special day’, so did my sister, like a second birthday, which in fact was the day my parents collected me from the Crusade of Rescue.
As a small child I was very happy and my thoughts never really strayed to my past until my birthday, when my parents at a private minute of the day would say ‘I bet someone else is thinking about you’ (in a nice way, that is). Then I would think about you and hope as I do now that you spared me some thoughts.
It wasn’t until I was older, in my early teens, that I thought about you more and sometimes I resented what had happened to me, particularly as one does as a teenager, having fallen out with my parents at that time. I used to resent you, thinking the worst, and this, I think, made me put thoughts of you out of my head, except, of course, on my birthday.
By this time the law had been passed to allow adopted children access to their natural parents and when suggested by my parents I was adamant I was happy not knowing.
As a child I even looked like my father in that I am slim-medium build, dark and tall, but now and for some years I have had a ‘swarthy’ complexion. The rest of my family look typically English and I have often wondered if there is any foreign blood in me.
People have always, as a result, taken me to be Spanish or Italian or have family ties as such, and I have always played along with it, although I look nothing like my family.
It has taken me thirty years to decide to find out the real truth.
Although in my youth I was rebellious and felt resentful towards you, I have now grown up mentally and for a number of years have wondered what has become of you.
I have had great curiosity to find out what you look like, whether I’m like you, whether you are well and are okay or may need my help in any way. I even feel something for you, and yet I don’t even know you.
I am so glad I have eventually done this. I am a very confident person but for years there has always been a little insecurity surrounding me and I think this stems from not really knowing who I am or where I come from.
I have always prayed you are okay and have not come to any harm. To hear you are married and have a daughter is fantastic news for me. I am pleased, as it puts my mind at rest.
It has been good to hear more about you through Mrs Holmes, where you came from, etc. I never thought my mother was an Essex Girl! I have racked my brains trying to work out what a code translator was.
On the forms Mrs Holmes has, it appears you have blue eyes and dark hair. It still hasn’t taken me any further forward as to my tanned appearance, so I must have to put that down to my father.
When I revisited the Crusade, or Catholic Children’s Society, as it is now, I found the information on the forms fascinating but upsetting. It made things seem very real. I was particularly touched, and visibly upset by a letter I was shown, written by you, asking if my name Paul had been kept. As you know now, it has.
The letter made me accept more easily that you had cared and didn’t really want to let me go, contrary to thoughts I had had as a teenager.
I must tell you now, I meant to at the beginning, that under no circumstances have I intended to put pressure on you and I certainly don’t want to interfere in your new life. That is not my intention. I just want you to know now, as I do feel for you.
When Mrs Holmes told me you had replied to her letter I was ecstatic, and hearing her tell of your reaction was great; apparently the response is not always as good. I’m lucky and I thank you.
You may know already that I am a policeman; my work now is based in special operations, drugs and serious crime. It is funny: when I joined the police force, I did my initial training at Ashford. I wonder, did you live in Tenterden then?
I have my own house near Cambridge, where I live with my fiancée, Karen, who I have known for a few years. She is gorgeous and we are the best of friends. She has supported me while I have decided to contact you – she accompanied me to the Crusade and has encouraged me.
We are to be married in Wales, where her parents come from, which I really look forward to.
I have enclosed a photograph of the both of us. Perhaps you will meet her soon – I would like that. I know she would, and I hope it is soon.
I am signing off now because I would like to tell you more about myself but in person. I really hope we can meet soon. I look forward to it. I enclose my telephone number, pager number and you have my address. Perhaps you could write, or contact Mrs Holmes and leave a contact number for me. Or arrange a date with Mrs Holmes, if you would like to meet me. I would prefer not to go to the Crusade of Rescue, please.
Please make contact.
Yours sincerely,
James x
I put the letter down. Then I picked it up again and reread it from the beginning. I must have read it a dozen times – perhaps more – by the time Michael came home at 6.30. In fact, I can no longer recall any detail of that afternoon, apart from sitting there at the kitchen table, reading the letter over and over again.
‘I must tell Kate now,’ I said to Michael, once he too had sat down and read James’s letter. He had been stunned by how much James looked like both of us, and I knew he could see how much I wanted to share this with her. But, perhaps thankfully, she had come home from school at the same time as he had – he’d picked her up from the station on his way – and had immediately gone upstairs to change out of her uniform and make a start on her homework. I also knew it wouldn’t have been fair to Michael, having agreed that I’d wait, to have presented him with a fait accompli when he walked in, if she’d come in earlier.
He was very insistent that I didn’t tell her – not yet. He shook his head. ‘Please just meet him
first, sweetheart. Please let’s not involve Kate until you’ve done that, at least. We know how you feel, and it seems clear from his letter that he’s keen to get to know you, but until you speak face to face you have no idea what’s going to happen next. He might care about you – I’m sure he does – but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wants you – us – in his life.’
I knew where Michael was coming from. I knew it was important he protect his daughter. But I felt strongly – even more so, having read James’s letter, that he did want us in his life. If anything, it felt as though his principal worry was that he wouldn’t be welcome in ours. Please make contact, he’d written. How much clearer could that have been? ‘But he’s already said he’d like us to meet his fiancée,’ I pointed out.
Michael nodded. ‘I know that, and I’m sure that’s what he does want. But there are other people in this equation, don’t forget – his adoptive parents. He might want all sorts of things, but, in the end, find it too difficult – too hurtful to them, too many divided loyalties. After all, can you imagine how all this might be for them?’
I had thought of them, and just as it had been my dream that this day would come, for them, perhaps, it had been the opposite. They would not wish for the day when it wouldn’t seem enough that they were his parents. I knew how much I’d thought about that when we’d decided to adopt a child. This would be hard for them, all of it. I knew that. I said so.
‘Exactly,’ Michael said. ‘So this will be new territory for his family, too. Which is why I think you should leave it till after you’ve actually met him to tell Kate. I know it’s hard, but just so you know you can be sure. It’s only a matter of days, that’s all.’
‘I know, but—’
The Baby Laundry for Unmarried Mothers Page 18