And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  Margaret smiled back. “I didn’t want to say anything, dear. I know you get very busy at work.”

  “I do, love. The last few weeks have been a bit mad, but hopefully things have settled down now.”

  “Good,” she said, gently stroking his cheek and returning to her book.

  He was thinking about calling it a night when his wife piped up once more.

  “Got the phone bill today,” she said flatly.

  “Oh, yes,” Malcolm murmured, waiting to hear about the lengthy calls made by their daughter and how he would have to talk to her about it the next day.

  “Mmm. There was a strange number on it.”

  “Oh.”

  Margaret closed her book and turned to her husband. “Malcolm, are you listening to me?”

  “Of course I am. Strange number. Go on.”

  Satisfied that he was alert and attentive, she continued.

  “Usually I wouldn’t notice such things, but it came up at least half a dozen times.”

  Malcolm shuffled his paper impatiently, wishing she’d get to the point but knowing any attempt to hurry her would result in an even lengthier story.

  “I knew I hadn’t called that number, and you hardly ever use the home phone for outgoing calls. It didn’t look like one of Sophie’s friends’ numbers, either, so I thought I should check it just in case.”

  Now Malcolm was listening. His first thought was sex lines; maybe Jonathan had been ringing those numbers you saw advertised on TV late at night? He had been tempted to ring them himself a few times.

  “So I rang the number.”

  She paused for dramatic effect. Malcolm knew she was waiting for him to ask what had happened when she rang the number, but he didn’t feel like indulging her tonight. He remained silent while she stared at him, waiting for her prompt.

  “So, anyway, I rang it,” she repeated.

  For fuck’s sake. It was easier to just play the game; if he didn’t, they’d be sitting here all night.

  “And?” he asked.

  “A lady answered, and she said, ‘Good afternoon, North-West Adoption Search Reunion, how can I help you?’”

  It felt like he’d been punched in the chest. Adoption Search Reunion. Their kids wanted to leave them. That’s what he got for being such a terrible father.

  “Jonathan?” he asked.

  She nodded sadly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know, Malc. I can tell it’s been on his mind.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “How many times did you say the number appeared on the bill?”

  “Half a dozen or more.”

  “And when did the calls start?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “Why couldn’t he come to us with this, Marge? He knows he can ask us anything.”

  “I don’t know, Malc. I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times.”

  “Maybe we could bring it up discreetly?”

  “Well, we can’t let him know we’ve been tracing his calls, that’s for certain.”

  “But we have to talk to him about it. He’s only fifteen, for God’s sake!”

  He realised he’d raised his voice and mumbled an apology. She leant her head on his shoulder and felt for his hand, gripping it in hers. Her gesture said it all; they had to stick together, because pretty soon their kids, or the kids they thought of as theirs, would be leaving them. In a few years they would be right back to square one, back to where they were the day they left the doctor’s office, childless and lonely. Malcolm couldn’t blame the children for leaving. They had such a terrible father, after all; tawdry office shenanigans, days spent drinking in dingy bars, missing important events in their lives, and lying, lying all the time. Was it any wonder they couldn’t wait to get away?

  He’d failed them. And he’d failed his wife too. She didn’t deserve this. But now, because of his shortcomings, she would be made to suffer too. He stifled a sob, his self-loathing complete.

  “Oh, Malcolm,” Margaret said, stroking his hair tenderly, “it’s just curiosity. They told us this might happen.”

  “We’ve brought them up well, haven’t we, Marge?”

  “We have, Malcolm. We should be proud of them.”

  “I am proud of them, and proud of you too, love.”

  “Ah, thanks,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  They remained like that for a few minutes, Malcolm gently weeping, but feeling nothing. He was numb now, almost immune to the sadness which permeated his life. Maybe if he told her now it could all be resolved; he would confess his sins, say goodbye and be gone by the morning. Jonathan would never ring that number again and Margaret would have her children, the two best things that had ever happened to her. He lay there in her arms, mulling this over, figuring that he had almost nothing left to lose, when he felt her hand reach inside his pyjamas. What the fuck? He couldn’t remember the last time they’d been intimate. It had been several months. He didn’t want this; he couldn’t bear to do it, not now, after everything that had happened. But she knew what buttons to press, she always had. Within seconds he was moaning in pleasure, succumbing to his desires.

  “Oh, Margey,” he said as he nuzzled her neck.

  “Ssh, the kids,” she whispered, clicking off her bedside lamp and indicating that he do the same.

  He did as instructed; offering no further complaint as his wife climbed on top of him.

  14

  Jonathan sat on the sofa, pretending to be engrossed in some awful daytime TV show. They’d been getting ready to go now for what seemed like hours. It was always the same. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have cared, but today he wanted them out of the house as soon as possible. He was going to call that number again, and this time he planned to speak.

  “Soph, have you seen my keys anywhere?”

  “No, Mum.”

  “Will you help me look for them?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  Jonathan knew she wouldn’t be helping. She was most likely still in her room, strutting in front of the mirror, pouting like a femme fatale.

  “Jonathan, will you help me look too?”

  He half-heartedly flipped over the cushions on the couch and ran his hand through the pile of magazines on the coffee table.

  “Not in here, Mum,” he called out.

  But the quicker those keys were found, the quicker he’d have the place to himself. So he trotted out to the kitchen where his mother was emptying the linen basket, scattering dirty clothes all over the floor.

  “I’ll look in the hallway, Mum; they might have fallen out of your coat.”

  He left her to the job of piling all the clothes back into the basket, and began searching under the table in the hallway. The sound of Britney Spears asking a baby to hit her one more time could be heard drifting down from Sophie’s room. Bingo. There they were; he’d hardly had to look.

  “Found them, Mum,” he called out triumphantly.

  “Where were they?” she asked, appearing in the hall.

  “Just under there, must have fallen out of your coat.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said accepting the keys and ruffling his hair in gratitude. “SOPHIE! COME ON!”

  “Coming, Mum.”

  His mother went out the front door, closely followed by the whirling dervish that was his sister, and then they were gone; he was finally alone. He watched them drive off and waited another five minutes in case they’d forgotten something. Then he waited another five to be extra sure.

  “Right,” he said to himself. “Here goes.”

  He picked up the phone and began dialling the number, he knew it off by heart now. He wondered who would answer. Would it be Elizabeth? Gregory? Or Rachel? She was his favourite, she sounded fit.

  At the sound of the fir
st ring, he slammed down the phone.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t meant to hang up. This was meant to be the call where he’d finally speak. He returned to the living-room and sat down again on the couch. He couldn’t do it. It would have been much easier if his dad was still being an idiot, but he’d collected him from running yesterday and they’d all had a lovely dinner together afterwards. It had been great, just like old times. But Jonathan had already earmarked today as the day he’d make the call. He couldn’t chop and change based on how well things were going at home. That didn’t come into it. Not really anyway. This was his own personal crusade, and no matter how many times he hung up the phone that wasn’t going to change. His thirst for information was still there; he needed to know. The thoughts and fears which had been circling around his head for months weren’t going to go away by themselves.

  He went out to the hallway again, picked up the phone and pressed ‘redial’. With gritted teeth he listened to it ring, fighting the urge to slam down the receiver and smash the whole thing off the wall.

  “Hello, Adoption Search Reunion, Rachel speaking. How can I help you?”

  Rachel. His favourite. If anyone would understand, it’d be Rachel.

  “Hello? How can I help you?”

  Any second now and she’d hang up; it’d be another failure, another wasted opportunity.

  “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

  “H – hi – ”

  “Hello? How can I help you?”

  He put down the phone and bashed it against the table a couple of times. Tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks, but at least he’d spoken to her this time.

  *

  That evening, after the girls had come back, he watched on as Sophie paraded around the house in her new clothes. They’d spent the day shopping, and most of what they’d bought was now draped around the tiny figure of his nine-year-old sister. He found her insufferable at the best of times, but right now she was especially annoying. Didn’t she ever wonder? She must do. It couldn’t just be him who was dealing with this torment. Maybe they’d lied to him and she wasn’t adopted at all? No, that was ridiculous; she looked even less like them than he did.

  “You look a right state, Sophie”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and continued to gyrate in front of the mirror. Yes, she was adopted, probably from another fucking planet.

  “Leave your sister alone,” chimed his mother as she came in to see how the fashion show was progressing. “She’s absolutely beautiful,” Margaret continued, planting a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. Jonathan exhaled dramatically and resumed his idle channel-surfing.

  “Oh, my programme’s coming on soon,” Sophie said excitedly.

  “What programme?” Jonathan replied defensively.

  “MTV Select. I’m allowed watch it aren’t I, mum?”

  “Yes, Sophie, of course you are.”

  “But mum, I’m watching this,” Jonathan said, gesturing to a tacky chat-show he’d never seen before.

  “Jonathan, we agreed that your sister could watch her programme every day at four, it’s the only time she gets the television to herself.”

  He remembered them discussing this and he remembered agreeing to it, but it still felt like an injustice.

  “Give it here,” his sister said, sticking out her hand and waiting for him to pass her the remote.

  Jonathan considered resisting, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Like a man handing over the keys to his lost treasure he placed the device in Sophie’s hands and got up to leave. The programme had already started and the first song of the day was playing. Predictably, it was one of Sophie’s favourites. She turned up the volume and began miming the lyrics into an imaginary microphone.

  “Ooh, that’s a catchy one, isn’t it Soph,” said Margaret, joining her daughter on the makeshift dancefloor.

  Jonathan watched the two of them prancing around in front of the television, and sighed deeply.

  “You two are unbelievable, do you know that?” he said witheringly.

  “Aren’t we just,” Margaret replied as mother and daughter broke into peals of laughter.

  He left them to it, traipsing up the stairs and slamming the door of his bedroom for effect. Jonathan doubted they’d even noticed. That was the problem with this house; no one noticed anything.

  15

  If Jonathan were to ring the number again, and speak to someone, he needed to have some details. That was probably why he’d been so hesitant before; he’d been unprepared. No wonder he’d clammed up. But if he armed himself with the relevant paperwork he would be able to answer whatever questions came his way. The most obvious piece of paperwork was his birth-certificate; that would have stuff on it, official things that he could chorus back to Rachel when she asked why he was calling. He didn’t know where his birth-certificate was, but he could hazard a guess. His mother kept a small wooden box in her room, it was full of important items; his first tooth, a lock of Sophie’s hair, a picture of her grandmother. Jonathan’s birth-cert was bound to be in there.

  In order to check the contents of the box however, he needed to have the house to himself once more. All this sneaking around and acting behind his parents’ back only deepened his guilt, but it was for their own good. Again it was a mother daughter shopping trip which presented him with his opportunity, their thirst for the latest fashions seemingly not sated by the previous splurge.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come, Jonathan?” his mother asked for the hundredth time as they made to leave.

  “Positive, mum.”

  “Okay then, we shouldn’t be too long.”

  He watched the car pull out, waited five minutes, waited another five and then ascended the stairs. Just entering his parents’ room made him feel uneasy, he never went in there unless they were there too. It felt wrong, almost illicit, as if he were entering a restricted area. It was still the same room, though, just an ordinary mum and dad bedroom. There were his dad’s trainers, the ones he’d worn yesterday, neatly tucked under the bed, and the necklace Sophie had bought Margaret for her birthday. The bed itself, immaculately made, and the built-in wardrobe where Jonathan hung his school shirts. It was there that he’d find the box, behind the third door; at the bottom, beside all the old shoes. But when he opened the door there weren’t any shoes at the bottom, nor was there a box containing vital paperwork. Instead it was all tidy, his dad’s suits hung from the rack, his shirts and ties accompanying them. There weren’t any shoes, old or otherwise. It appeared that his mother had taken it upon herself to do some spring cleaning since Jonathan had last been in here. She could have had the decency to inform him.

  He tried the other doors, dragging clothes this way and that as he scanned the wardrobe’s depths for that all-important box. Instead he found some other items of interest; old books with his name pencilled in on the first page, an electric car-racing game, an unopened parcel with the label torn off and what suspiciously looked like Sophie’s birthday present. On another day these finds might have stolen his attention, but he hadn’t time for frivolities right now. However, after a lengthy, concerted search he had to admit defeat. The box wasn’t in there. She had moved it. But to where? He looked around the rest of the room; her bedside locker was a possibility, as was underneath the bed. Both options however felt a step too far, a peek into potentially upsetting parts of his parents’ life. Who knew what they kept hidden in those places? What if he came across something sexual? God, it didn’t bear thinking about. But he had to look. He quickly opened his mother’s locker, promising himself that if he saw anything questionable he would close the door and purge the memory from his mind. There was nothing of note in there, just books and pens and bits of jewellery; no weird stuff and no wooden box. Buoyed he got down on his knees and peered under the bed. Absolutely nothing, not even an old sock. How did they li
ve like this? The last time Jonathan had checked under his bed he’d found over four quid in loose coins and a packet of crisps only two months out of date.

  Having ensured that he’d removed all trace of his being there, he exited his parents’ room and went downstairs. If she’d moved the box then chances were it was in the kitchen, in that cupboard above the cutlery. He knew she kept important stuff in there, usually bills and old Christmas cards. There was a chance she’d got rid of the box and just put all its content in the cupboard. But after checking that cupboard, and two others like it, he came up blank. Jonathan stood in the middle of the kitchen growing increasingly frustrated; he had to find his birth-certificate today, he was sick of waiting around and there was no telling when he’d have the house to himself again. He moved the search to the living-room, emptying the large cabinet behind the television, not even bothering to cover his tracks anymore. But it wasn’t in there either, just loads of old photos and newspaper clippings of his races. The dining-room proved similarly fruitless, as did the garden shed. By now he was chucking things out of his way, more blundering burglar than private investigator.

  “Where the hell is it?” he said out loud, “this is ridiculous.”

  Then it struck him; the one place where everything eventually went, the end of the line, the attic. Hurrying up the stairs he came to a halt on the landing and stared up at his goal. He’d never actually been in the attic, had only caught glimpses of it as his dad ferried stuff up there – usually in the second week of January. But what better reason to become acquainted with a previously unexplored part of the house. Realising he’d need the step-ladder he thundered back down the stairs and outside into the shed. The ladder was jammed beneath the lawnmower and some half-empty buckets of paint. Carefully positioning himself, he managed to extricate the ladder without making too much of a mess, only knocking over two tool-boxes and tearing open a bag of compost in pursuit of his goal.

  Returning to the top of the stairs he placed the ladder in the middle of the floor and clambered up into the attic. Isn’t there supposed to be a light, he thought as his eyes struggled to readjust to the darkness. Jonathan moved his hands around, hoping they might alight on something helpful, and felt a ceiling switch swing against his fingers. He pulled it and suddenly the dark, pokey attic was illuminated. He was surrounded by yet more boxes, big cardboard ones with writing on them. There weren’t any small wooden boxes, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one inside one of the cardboard boxes. He opened up the nearest box, it was full of old junk, stuff that really should have just been thrown out. Shoving it to one side he tried the next box: old clothes, fashion faux-pas that their wearers were determined to forget. He found an old Christmas tree, the plastic one they’d bought a couple of years ago that Sophie had hated, the rowing machine that was supposed to get his dad in shape, Jonathan’s punch-bag and the gloves, he’d have to get back into boxing…