Alone Beneath The Heaven (49 page)

Authors: Rita Bradshaw

BOOK: Alone Beneath The Heaven

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Which led her on to her next thought. Why had this person, this Jack, written now, after all these months? Could it be he had only just seen the advertisement? But that didn’t seem likely. Or perhaps he had been considering whether to write at all in the intervening time? The pounding intensified. Maybe he had had to weigh possible family objections in the balance?

Oh, all these perhapses and maybes and what ifs! ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ She spoke out loud into the quiet garden, before shaking her head and sighing softly. Talking to herself now; first sign, that was. Perhaps it would have been better to follow Maggie’s advice and leave well alone? Her old friend had not been happy about any of this, she knew that, but she had
needed
to try. She had prepared herself to uncover anything, good or bad, in exchange for some respite to the constant ache at the back of her mind. Genetically, she might belong to someone out there, someone who was still alive. She was only twenty-four - even if her natural mother had had her late in life, she could still be alive.
Her mother
. . . She took a deep breath and willed the agitation to settle. She had to calm down, she’d been through this so many times now it should be old hat, and she’d be having the baby weeks early at this rate.

There were still several days to go to the proposed meeting on the nineteenth, and she wasn’t going to spend them whittling and worrying. She had to come to terms with this search for her beginnings. It was a vain hope, at best. She continued to tell herself more of the same, not wanting to admit that yet again her hopes were high, along with the underlying feeling of aloneness that thoughts of her abandonment always produced. She had expected it to get better when she had married Rodney, and it had, to a large extent it had, but since she had known she was expecting a child of her own all the old feelings had surfaced.

Rodney had sat her down at the beginning of all this and talked to her like a dutch uncle, emphasizing that even if her mother was still alive, and they found her, she might not want to see the daughter she had abandoned twenty-four years ago. And she knew that . . . in a way. But how - Sarah screwed up her eyes against the thought - how could her mother have felt her move inside her, like this baby inside her was moving now, carried her for nine months, given birth to her, seen her face, and then followed through on the plan to get rid of her? How could she not have
loved
her? She loved this baby now, without ever having seen it and without knowing if it was a boy or girl, perfect or imperfect. She loved it,
she did
, and even if all heaven and hell itself were united against her, she wouldn’t let go of her baby.

‘Mrs Mallard?’ Sarah came to with a start as she heard Mrs Freeman call from the back door, and, rising slowly, she answered, ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Phone call from London. Lady Margaret.’

Right. Back into everyday, live-in-the-real-world mode. Margaret would be expecting effusive congratulations and she would certainly get them. She deserved nothing less, bless her. The nineteenth was the nineteenth, and would go on the back burner until the calendar said otherwise, and then just she and Rodney would share the experience . . . whatever it held.

‘All right?’

‘I think so.’ She tried to smile but it was beyond her.

‘I’m here with you, I’m here every step of the way.’

‘I know, I know.’ This time she could smile as his love and support reached out to warm her.

‘If nothing comes of this, we will try again and we’ll keep trying. It follows that only a certain selection of the Sunderland population sees each advertisement, some probably don’t read the local paper at all, so we’ll think about other ways. Don’t be discouraged.’

‘I won’t, no, I won’t.’ They both knew she was lying.

The Fox and Hounds public house was on the corner of Hansley Road and Carmichael Street, and having arrived almost half an hour early, Rodney parked some thirty yards down the street outside Fulwell’s sweet shop. There was a little café just a few yards into Carmichael Street, and that was where Rodney was insisting Sarah wait, while he ventured inside the pub to - hopefully - keep the appointment with the said Jack.

They had planned to sit in the car until the last moment; from their vantage point in the vehicle they could see who went inside the Fox and Hounds whilst remaining inconspicuous themselves, but Sarah found that as the minutes ticked by her nerves increased, until, at ten minutes to eight, she had had enough.

However, once they had left the car and passed Dunn’s toy shop and Wearings’ motor stores, and the first large arched window of the Fox and Hounds, Sarah stood stock still, clutching at Rodney’s arm as she said, ‘You
will
stay for a while if he’s not there straight off? You won’t leave immediately?’

‘I’ve told you.’ Rodney gestured towards the corner of the street as he eased her fingers loose and tucked her hand through his arm. ‘Now come on, I’ll take you to the café and get you a cup of tea first, then go to the pub and ask for Jack.’

‘I wish you’d let me come in the pub with you.’

‘
Sarah
.’ It was a tone he rarely used, which made it all the more effective. If she’d said she wanted to come with him once, she’d said it a hundred times since they received the letter, and now she said no more, nodding and pressing her lips together as she breathed deeply through her nose. What if, after all this, this Jack had changed his mind and didn’t come? Or if it had been a ruse of some kind? Or -

Rodney pushing open the door of the café stopped the brief moments of panic, and after he had got her established at a table in the corner with a cup of tea and a sticky bun she had no intention of eating, he patted her shoulder encouragingly, his eyes tender, before disappearing through the door.

Her mind was buzzing as she sat staring at the rather dispirited looking bun. Maggie was right, she shouldn’t have started this, no good would come of it. But she couldn’t
not
have. The same old argument, that she had battled with many times in the past, still brought some measure of comfort when she reached the likewise same old conclusion. If she found out nothing then she was no worse off than she had been before; but if she got a name, a confirmation of her nationality, anything, it would have been worth all the disappointments. She continued to sit with her head bent, deep in thought, the other occupants of the café - a young courting couple making a cup of tea do all night, and a burly docker who had obviously called in for egg and chips on his way home - as uninterested in her as she was in them.

‘Mrs Mallard?’

Her head shot up as the deep, soft, northern voice sounded in front of her, and she found herself looking at a broad, stocky man a few years younger than Rodney. Her eyelids blinked but she was unable to utter a word - it was only in that moment she admitted to herself she hadn’t dared to believe anyone would really keep the appointment, and after an ensuing few seconds of silent embarrassment, it was Rodney who said, ‘Sarah, this is Jack. Jack, Sarah.’

‘Hallo.’ She finally managed to get a word through the blockage in her throat, and then it was easier to smile and say, ‘So you’re the mysterious Jack then?’

‘Aye, I’m Jack all right. Jack McHaffie.’ And then as Rodney said, ‘Sit down, Jack, won’t you,’ he inclined his head, still without taking his eyes off Sarah as he said, ‘Thanks, man.’

Jack sat at the other side of the little table at arm’s length from her, and he looked at Sarah, and she at him, and again it was Rodney who broke the silence by saying, ‘Let me get you a cup of tea, Jack.’

‘Ta.’ He half rose again, nodding as he said, ‘Aye, ta, thanks.’

‘I won’t be a minute.’ Rodney hesitated for a moment, his eyes meeting Sarah’s, before he left them alone.

‘So . . .’ She didn’t know quite how to begin, she was feeling distinctly odd. It was something to do with the man’s face, although it wasn’t out of the ordinary in any way - just a nice, good-looking, masculine face. ‘You think you might know something about the baby who was abandoned twenty-four years ago?’

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

He had a pleasant voice, soft, melodious, but it was some moments before Sarah replied, and then her voice was very low when she said, ‘Yes, it was me.’

‘Aye, I knew it. I thought it was too much of a coincidence when I read that bit in the paper, but the minute I set eyes on you I knew.’

‘Knew?’

‘Aye, you’re the spittin’ image of your mam.’

The constriction in her throat was back and it made it impossible for her to utter a word, so as Rodney returned with a tray holding three fresh cups of tea, his voice over-jolly as he said, ‘Here we are then, everything all right?’ she merely looked up at her husband in mute appeal.

‘Sarah?’

Placing the tray quickly on the table, Rodney sat down beside her and then they were holding each other tightly, Sarah’s face buried in his chest, as she muttered, ‘He knows . . . he thinks he knows who my mother was.’

And then the man’s voice separated them as he said quietly, ‘Is. Who your mam is. She’s still alive.’

Sarah lifted her head and stared into the big square face, and she saw the eyes were soft with understanding, but it was Rodney who said, ‘Look, Jack, I’m sure you mean well, and don’t take this the wrong way, but how do we know what you’re saying is fact? How do
you
know if it comes to that? It’s not that I think you’d deliberately mislead us—’

‘It’s all right, man, I’d be the same in your shoes.’ And then, as he looked at Sarah, her hand clutching her throat, he continued, ‘But if you knew her mam you couldn’t doubt it. Like I said, she’s the spittin’ image of our Nancy. An’ the dates you put in the paper, everythin’ ties in. Was anythin’ left with you?’ he asked Sarah suddenly. ‘Was anythin’ wrapped round you, somethin’ like that?’

Sarah nodded. Maggie had once told her that she had been found in a scrap of brown sacking, but that any marks of identification had long since worn off.

‘Was it a sack, a bit of sacking, maybe?’

She nodded again, her throat working.

‘Aye, I thought so. Me da used to bring a load of sacking home with him off the boats whenever he could get it by the deck hand. Me mam used it for towels, bedding, whatever we was more short of at the time.’

‘You really think you know who I am?’ She felt strange, very strange, as though this were all a dream and she was outside looking in, knowing she would have to wake up in a minute. She knew she was staring at him as though she was half sharp, but she couldn’t help it. He knew her mother.
He knew her mother.

‘Aye, lass, I’m as sure as I’ll ever be about anythin’. Here.’ He reached into the pocket of his rough jacket and drew out a slightly dog-eared photograph, sliding it across the table as he said, ‘This was our Nancy when she was a year younger than you are now.’

‘Good grief.’ It was Rodney who spoke, and now his voice was hushed as he said, ‘It’s uncanny, you could be twins.’

‘Aye, you see what I mean now? An’ the night you was left, that was the night our Nancy had her bairn.’

‘You’re . . . you’re related to . . .’ Sarah had known there was something about his eyes, and now it suddenly dawned on her. All those years of searching her face in the mirror - they were
her
eyes staring back at her out of the blunt male face.

‘Aye, lass.’ He drew one lip over the other before saying, a little sheepishly, ‘I’m your Uncle Jack.’

Sarah stared at him for a moment more, her heart thudding and a rush of overwhelming emotion making her dizzy. She didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry but she did neither, merely glancing at Rodney who was very quiet at her side. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. In any other circumstances the look on her unflappable husband’s face would have made her laugh.

‘Look, it might be better if I went back to the beginnin’, lass. An’ some of it, well . . .’ He rubbed his nose before continuing, ‘Some of it’s not too easy to say.’ He had included Rodney in his glance, and now Rodney’s arm came more tightly round her, but neither of them said a word.

Sarah wanted to ask him so much: did he know if her mother had ever regretted what she’d done, had she ever talked about the baby she had abandoned, did she want to see her? But she was too frightened of the answers she might get. So she clutched the photograph and listened.

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