by Diana Finley
Sylvia starts renting a council flat in a high-rise block. She’s on the ninth floor and has a good view, but she struggles with the stairs when the lift is out of order, which is frequently. I know too, that she’s finding it hard surviving on her pension.
So I decide to invite Sylvia to live with me. It isn’t just that I want to help her, I’m genuinely fond of her and we enjoy one another’s company. What could be a better arrangement?
‘You’ll have your own room and bathroom. We can be as independent as we want, but we’re here for each other if we want support, or just company,’ I tell her.
‘I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you, Marie. Anyway you’ve got your granddaughter and daughter-in-law nearby. And Barry of course. You don’t really need me.’
‘Yes, well, some of them are more help than others, as you know. It’s not just about needing you; it’s that I’d love you to be here, as my good friend. Sometimes I might need your help and support, yes. Sometimes you might need mine. Heaven knows, you’ve given me enough over the years.’
***
Sylvia knows all about the worries I’ve had with Barry – from when he was a baby and a tiny wee boy, then through his adolescence, and even now, as a mature man. She understands too, that the deep well of sadness in me about losing Donal has never left me. How could it? He’s my child, my own son, just as Barry is, and I can’t help but love him too, even though I haven’t seen him for over thirty years.
I had always known that Donal’s name was changed by his adoptive parents, and at first the authorities are not prepared to divulge what his new name might be. That makes it very hard for Barry to trace him. We also knew that the initial adoption had broken down after just two years, and that Donal was returned to the care of the local authority. It appears he spent years in some dreary children’s home, the poor, poor child.
This information breaks my heart. I remember that terrible day at the mother and baby home as if it were yesterday, when the wealthy-looking couple came to fetch him. It felt as though they not only took my child from me, they tore a part of my soul out and took that away too. Yet, over all the years, I had comforted myself with the belief that although I couldn’t be a loving mother to Donal, at least he was being loved and cared for by people who desperately wanted a child; people who could afford to give him everything he might want and need in life.
However, that was not the case, not at all. Poor Donal’s childhood has been spent in dismal institutions with the exception of some brief, apparently unsuccessful, attempts at fostering. Why, oh why did I ever agree to give him up? All this time, my precious boy could at least have had a loving mother, even if a poor one. How many nights had I cried myself to sleep thinking of him, and wondering if he believes his mother never wanted him? That thought is unbearable.
Chapter 25
2004
Robert
Dear Robert,
You may be surprised to hear from me. I know we have never met – perhaps you don’t even know of my existence – yet we are not strangers. I imagine this letter may come as a complete shock to you. My name is Barry Tully and I am your brother – your twin brother! We were separated soon after our birth. I have also only learned of your existence recently.
You may wonder why I have contacted you now. Well, sadly, Mum died of breast cancer two years ago. She was only fifty-one. I found myself thinking about you more and more. I wanted to get in touch with you, my only known surviving relative, (apart from my four-year-old daughter, Nina) as soon as possible, especially as I’m not in very good health myself – and none of us knows what the future holds. I think about you often, and hope you are fit and well yourself.
Let me tell you a bit about myself. I live in London. Like you, of course, I am nearly thirty-four. I married in my twenties, but sadly the marriage has run into difficulties. At the moment, my wife and I live apart. My wife, Anaïs, is French, but she lives in Blackheath, in South East London, together with little Nina, while I now live north of the Thames, near Swiss Cottage. I’ve been lucky with my educational and career opportunities, and currently work for a large international bank in the City. I earn well, but I can’t say that’s brought me a lot of happiness.
I don’t know what you have been told about your/our background. Our mother, Marie Tully, was unmarried and only seventeen when she met our father. He was a ‘rolling stone’, working with a travelling fair that visited Mum’s village in Ireland. He charmed her, an innocent and uneducated girl at that time. Predictably of course, after a brief affair, he ‘hit the road’ and disappeared. Mum never saw him again.
She soon found out she was pregnant. Her parents, especially her dad, were very strict. Mum had to travel to London on her own, where she gave birth in a dismal home for single mothers – St Agatha’s – run by nuns. The senior nun was very harsh. She insisted Mum give up at least one of us babies for adoption. There was no choice.
By pure chance, I was the child she kept, and you were the one given to adoptive parents. The nuns told Mum it was ‘for the best’ and convinced her that you would have a better life with people who could afford to care for you properly. Her father wouldn’t have her – or us – back in the house. She could never return to Ireland. To her lifelong, desperate regret and sorrow, she was unable to support and bring up both of us. It broke Mum’s heart to give you up.
You may have judged her harshly over the years, Robert, but I promise you that all through her life, Mum never stopped loving you, thinking about you and longing for you. Just having me was never enough for her. I know that.
She was desperate to find you. Years later she hired a researcher. He found out that your adoption had broken down, and you had been returned to the care of the local authority at about two years old. Mum was devastated. She had always comforted herself with the belief that at least you would be wanted, loved, and well cared for.
Please believe me, Robert, Mum tried very hard to trace you and reclaim you, but rules were stricter in those days. She’d given you the name Donal, but she was told that the adoptive parents would have changed it, so there was no point in searching for ‘Donal Tully’. She was told no one would allow her to know your new name, that you were being fostered, and it would disturb and disrupt your life if she were allowed to have contact with you. So she had to give up, though it was a continuing sadness throughout her life.
Times are different now, and the internet makes all sorts of things possible. After a long search, I was able to trace you through a specialist social worker, who told me your name is now Robert Carlton. Mum always only thought of you as Donal. If only Mum were still here, she would be so happy to find you. But though that’s never to be, you and I are brothers, Robert, twin brothers – so you do have a family and someone who cares about you.
Robert, the main reason for this letter is that I would really like us to meet and have the chance to talk. I know you live in Newcastle, and by coincidence, Northumberland, the hinterland to your great city, is a county that I have walked in and much loved in recent years, never realising that my own brother was a mere thirty or forty miles away! I would love us to meet in Northumberland, Robert, and perhaps to walk together on another occasion. However, not knowing anything about you, it seems best to meet somewhere less remote and more accessible in the first instance.
I thought Durham would be a good place for us to meet, being on the direct train line from London, and only fifteen minutes from you in Newcastle. I have enclosed a copy of a street map of Durham, and marked, a café about ten minutes’ walk from the station, called Wearview Café. I suggest, on this occasion, we meet there for a light lunch at about 1 p.m. on Wednesday 7th February – it would be a chance to talk and begin to get to know one another. Please give me a quick call on my mobile (number below) just to confirm you will come, Robert.
I very much hope that you will come – meeting you would mean so much to me. However, at no time are you obliged to continue our contact, should you prefer not
to.
Robert, I can’t tell you how excited and thrilled I am at the prospect of meeting you after all these years. Please, please come.
Your brother,
Barry Tully
The letter arrives completely out of the blue. It’s totally swept the feet from under me. Why now, after all these years? I stare at the letter. I frown at it, as if I might make it disappear. I feel deeply unsettled. In fact, the letter really provokes me. No one has shown much interest in me before. I know nothing about any relatives. It’s never occurred to me that I might have a brother – or any family at all for that matter. In all the years of my growing up, I’ve never been told about a brother, let alone a twin brother. My first instinct is to tear the letter up and put it in the bin or burn it – just forget the whole thing. I glare at the letter, trembling accusingly in my hand.
Why should this man, this Barry, this stranger, imagine I’d be interested in him; now, at this stage of our lives, as each of us are into our thirties, for fuck’s sake?! Surely he can’t really be my brother? Probably some sort of scam. I hold the letter over the fire once more; a miserable smouldering affair, as usual, giving out bugger all heat. My fingers are itching to let go of it, to be done with it and forget all about it. But, at the last minute, I have second thoughts, tighten my grip and pull my hand back – just as the flame is about to devour the letter for ever. I blow on it, scattering a small cloud of ash and singed paper fragments into the air. They drift slowly to the floor, like dirty snowflakes. I give a deep sigh and read the letter one more time.
I’m not sure exactly what I feel. Shock, anger, disbelief, total confusion, it’s almost as though it has personally offended me. It’s a long letter. I read it countless times. Each time, it leaves me feeling more agitated. Oh yes, he certainly has a way with words, this brother of mine. No doubt about that.
He’s right that I know little about my history, about my ‘birth family’. All I’ve been told is that my mother had been young and unmarried, and that she’d been abandoned by my feckless father before I was born. That was it.
So, he was a ‘rolling stone’ was he? Sounds a bit like me. Maybe I take after my dad …?
Yes, OK, no doubt our mum was young, and maybe she’d had a rough time, but she didn’t want me, did she? She can’t have done, or she’d never have agreed to my adoption. Didn’t she realise how much I needed her when I was growing up, how much I wanted her? Even if she’d been forced to give me up, surely she’d have tried – really tried – to find me? Well, my brother says she did try. Maybe she did, how do I know?
I’d never made any attempt to trace her myself. What was the point? I wouldn’t know where to start. So that was that. I don’t feel much for her … well, not usually. Just occasionally I did wonder about her … sometimes in bed, I’d long for her, for a mother. But why should I have feelings for her? Fancy giving away your own child. What mother would do that?
No one had ever mentioned a twin brother before, not in all those years. Is it true – do I really have a brother? I notice Barry hasn’t added any address or details to his letter, apart from the mobile phone number. Maybe he’s just some crank, a weirdo, an attention seeker. Maybe the whole thing is a hoax. Bound to be, in fact, with my luck.
Yet … I hold the little map of Durham in my hand. That’s real enough. Shall I go? Shall I meet my brother? The 7th of February is just two weeks away.
I can’t get the letter out of my mind. Whatever I do, bits of what he wrote creep back into my consciousness. One thing strikes me is that without me even knowing of this Barry’s existence, he has been thinking about me for some time – years perhaps – and I’m not sure I like that idea. No, not at all. It feels a bit like an intrusion. Almost as if Barry has been secretly watching me, observing me without me knowing – like a voyeur, like a stalker. That thought sends shivers down my spine.
But … on the other hand … Barry does really seem interested in me, really keen to meet me, to know me. Not many people have ever expressed interest in knowing me before. In fact, it’s as if Barry thinks he does know me, as though he feels connected to me somehow. I don’t think I’ve ever felt connected to anyone in my life, not really … except to Len and Betty. I wish I was still connected to them.
Is it possible that I might like Barry? That he might feel like … not a friend exactly, but … well … like a brother? What harm could there be in meeting him? If he really is my twin brother – my identical twin brother – well, that means the two of us must have started life as exact equals – in other words, with nothing! Then, at some point early on, everything changed.
Donal Tully. Is that really my name? I can’t get my head around it. He sounds like a stranger … Who is he? Who am I really? No harm in finding out a bit more about myself, I suppose. Suddenly I feel excited, eager even.
***
The following morning I wake early. I haven’t slept well and can’t sleep any longer, my head’s that full of questions. There are no answers coming, none at all, just tension. I get up – I need to do something active, stop the nerves jangling.
Money’s one thing that has been on my mind. I go into the kitchen, pull out the cooker and gently ease the loose skirting board out with a screwdriver. My hand gropes around in the dust and rubble. Eventually, there it is, I find what I’m looking for. My fingers close around a crumpled A5 envelope. I haven’t counted what’s in it since Tracy made off with my previous stash. I know it won’t contain much. My very minimal wages caring for needy and elderly people in their homes, plus even more minimal allowances from the state don’t allow me much in the way of savings. I open the envelope and carefully count the contents. Ninety-seven pounds. That’s my entire worldly wealth – apart from day-to-day cash. Barry wouldn’t think much of it, I bet! Just small change to him. Still, it’s more than enough for a ticket to Durham, and lunch in a café.
I can’t get the thought of my possible meeting with Barry out of my head. There’s a permanent tight feeling in my belly. My heart’s beating overtime. What will my brother be like? I try to picture someone who looks exactly like me. It isn’t easy. It’s strange how you can look at yourself in the mirror nearly every day, yet would you recognise yourself walking down the street? I’m not sure I would. Besides, even if he looks more or less the same in terms of features, likely there’d be all sorts of differences too. Barry’s bound to dress differently for a start. He might wear glasses. His hair is probably cut at some fancy, expensive barber. I wonder if his voice will be exactly the same as mine? That would be weird. He probably won’t have a local accent, unless maybe a London accent.
He’s obviously intelligent. Well, I’m not thick myself. He must have been good with money – so that’s a difference; I’ve never had any money to be good with.
How different Barry’s life must have been to mine – what with his high-flying job in the City. What could we possibly have in common?
Yet perhaps I should meet him? Perhaps I should see it as an opportunity not to be missed. Imagine standing face to face with him. What would we say? Would we shake hands? Hug? Who could tell what might come out of that meeting, that relationship. Anything might be possible, I suppose.
As I think about the reality of meeting him, the prospect of experiencing the actual presence of my brother, I feel the tightness in my belly rising to my chest, followed by a racing of my heart as excitement takes hold. The truth is, I’m not just excited, I’m scared – scared sodding stiff.
Chapter 26
2004
Barry
I hesitate briefly outside Wearview Café, hoping he won’t be there yet. I made sure to arrive early; I need some time to gather my thoughts. It’s exactly as I remember from a previous visit: a small, stone-built cottage on a steep, quiet back street. True enough, a tiny stretch of the River Wear, sparkling in the winter sunshine, is just visible in the distance from outside the café, allowing the name a small degree of accuracy.
I adjust my sunglasses and pus
h the door open. The owner, a friendly woman in her sixties, with grey hair clamped loosely into a bun, is behind a counter stacked with cakes and biscuits, and other snacks. I remember her from my last visit to Durham. It was a long time ago. I’m slightly anxious that she might recognise me, but she doesn’t. I adjust my hat to a jaunty angle.
‘Oh hello there! Lovely day, isn’t it?’ she says with a friendly smile. ‘What can I do for you today?’
‘I’m … er … meeting someone here for a bite of lunch. I’d rather wait ’til he comes before ordering. He may be a few minutes late. Have you got a quiet table for two? I’m afraid I forgot to book.’
‘No problem, pet. We’re quiet today. There’s a little room at the back with a secluded table. Nice and peaceful,’ she says, pointing down the corridor leading to the rear of the building. ‘You go and get settled down. Just order whenever you’re ready. All right?’
I thank her and make my way down the passage. I pass one small room on the left, with three tables, two of them occupied by women deep in conversation, and a further room on the right of the passage with a large family group sitting at two tables pushed together. I continue to a small, dark room at the end, lit only by a narrow window and the flames of a coal fire. There’s just one table, and it’s unoccupied at present. I sit down, put my hat on the seat next to me, and study the menu. My newly grown beard is itching. I give it a rub and remind myself to try not to scratch it or fiddle with it.
A few minutes later Robert still hasn’t appeared and I start to wonder if he’s decided not to come. I open my case and take out the letter that arrived from my hospital consultant this morning, and start to read. The words seem to swim in front of my eyes. My hands are trembling slightly. I’ve barely read a paragraph when approaching footsteps sound in the corridor. I hastily fold the letter and stuff it into my trouser pocket. A man of my age and height, a man who clearly looks like me, hesitates in the doorway. He looks at me and takes a few steps into the room.