Sheer Abandon (9 page)

Lucky, lucky Ed, with all that ahead of him.

Chapter 4

         Dreadful sobs came from the room: dreadful sobs telling of dreadful grief. It was the third time Helen had heard them over the past few months; she waited a while hoping they would ease.

The first two had been the result of Kate’s so-far fruitless search for her birth mother. She had told Helen what she intended to do the first time, and Helen had listened, her heart sinking at the inadequacy of the plans, not daring to criticise or even make suggestions. She had merely smiled at her brightly, hugged her goodbye as she set off; and waited, sick with anxiety, for her return.

It had come a very few hours later; the front door had opened, slammed shut, there were running footsteps up the stairs, her door shut—and the sobs began.

She had waited fifteen minutes, then followed her up the stairs and knocked on her door. Kate was lying on her bed, swollen-eyed, resentful, angry with Helen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That no one would still be at the hospital? People who were there when I was found. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know. How could I?” Helen tried to be patient. She sat down on Kate’s bed and tried to smooth her hair, but Kate shied away from her.

“Look,” said Helen, “why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Kate had gone to the hospital, the South Middlesex, to outpatients (not having any idea where else you could go for help); they had looked at her, she said, as if she were mad.

“I mean, is it such a lot to ask? I only wanted to know who’d been on the baby unit in 1986. They just said had I got a letter from anyone? As if I was going in to have an operation or something. I said no, and they said they really couldn’t help, I’d have to write in, so that my request could be guided through the proper channels. I mean, please! Anyway, then I followed the signs that said Maternity Unit. It was on the third floor and when I got there, there was this sort of waiting room full of these hideous pregnant women and more of these stupid women on the reception desk. They said there wouldn’t be anyone still working there and I said how did they know? And they said because no one had been there more than seven years. So then I said what about the cleaners or something? And they said the cleaning was all done by outside agencies now, and then it had been done by staff. So I said what was the name of the agency and they said they had no idea. I saw one of them look at the other and raise her eyebrows and I just walked out. And then as I was walking down one of those endless corridors I saw a sign that said Administration Offices so I went in there.”

“And?”

“And there was only one nerdy man in there and he said nobody was available on Saturdays, and I said oh, really, what about him, and he said he’d just come in for half an hour. I said that didn’t make any difference, I wanted the names of some people who’d been working there fifteen years ago, and he said that was classified information and couldn’t be handed out to anyone. He said if I wrote in, they might consider my request. And that was that.”

“Well,” said Helen carefully, “why don’t you write in?”

“Mum, they’re complete morons. They don’t know anything. And they don’t want to help.”

“Did you tell any of them why you wanted to know?”

“Of course not. I’m not going round like some sad thing looking for her mother. Having everyone sorry for me.”

“Kate, my love,” said Helen, “I think you’re going to have to. Otherwise your reasons could be very dubious indeed. Just think for a minute.”

Kate stared at her; then she said, “No, Mum, I can’t. I’m not going to do that. I’ll do this in my own way. I know what I’m doing.”

“Good,” said Helen.

She did nothing for several months; then she had gone to Heathrow and made for the information desk; how could she make contact with one of the cleaners?

“Do you have a name?” said the overdone blonde, pausing briefly from her interminable computer tapping.

“No.”

She sighed. “Well then, dear, how can we help you?”

“You must have a list of people.”

“Even if we did, if you don’t have a name, what good would a list do? Is this a complaint or something?”

“No,” said Kate, “no, it’s not.”

“So what is it?”

“I—I can’t tell you.”

“In that case,” she said, returning to her tapping, “I don’t think I can help. You could write in to HR if you like.”

“What’s HR?”

“Human Resources. Now if you’ll excuse me, there are people waiting. Yes, sir—”

And she indicated to Kate to move so that she could talk to the man behind her.

Kate felt the same despairing panic as last time. She went over to one of the cafés and bought a Coke and sat looking around her at all the cleaners and porters. Some of them were quite old. They must have been there for at least fifteen years. And they must all know one another. Bound to. She finished her Coke, and went up to a middle-aged Asian woman wiping the tables; she asked her how long she had worked there.

“Too long, my dear, much too long.” She smiled, a sweet tired smile.

“Fifteen years?”

“Oh, no.”

“Do you know anyone who has?”

“I could ask around for you, I suppose. Why do you want to know, my dear?”

“I can’t tell you that. Sorry. But it’s nothing unpleasant.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Kate sat for a long time, watching her ask several of her fellow workers. She saw some of them smiling, some of them raising their eyebrows like the nurses, all of them shaking their heads. Finally an officious-looking man came up to the Asian woman and asked her something; she stopped smiling and pointed in Kate’s direction. He walked over to her.

“Excuse me, miss. Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” said Kate. “I’m just looking for someone.”

“And who would that be?”

“Someone who was working here fifteen years ago.”

“And why would you want such a person?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“In that case, I must ask you to stop wasting my staff’s time. If you have a request, you must make it through the proper channels. Write in to the HR department. But they won’t help you if you don’t have a very satisfactory reason.”

She caught the tube back to Ealing and spent the afternoon in her room.

That day she wouldn’t even allow Helen in.

And now, today, more sobs. Helen braced herself, knocked at the door. She couldn’t leave it; and besides, she thought she knew what the sobs were about. Tomorrow was Kate’s birthday; how it had upset her for the past few years.

“Kate? Darling, can I help?”

“No. Thanks,” she added, after a pause.

“Not even to listen?”

“I said no.”

“Fine. Well—”

The phone rang; gratefully, Helen went to answer it.

“That was Granny,” she said, walking into Kate’s room. “She wants to take us all out tomorrow night. To celebrate your birthday. Isn’t that nice?”

“Where to? McDonald’s?”

“Kate, don’t be rude, dear.”

“Sor-ry.” The word was dragged out, in an exaggerated pretence at politeness.

“To Joe Allen. In Covent Garden. She says it’s great fun.”

“Joe Allen?” She struggled to stay disinterested, gave up. “Well done, Gran. She’s so cool.”

“I’m glad you think so. You sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

“Mum! I said no!” But she smiled at Helen, gave her a quick hug. “I’m OK. Honestly.”

Relieved, Helen went downstairs to tell Jim about Jilly’s offer; he wasn’t at all pleased as she had expected, said he didn’t think they should go.

“We always celebrate birthdays at home. It’s a family tradition. And you’ve already made her cake. What are you supposed to do with that?”

“Have it before we go. Or when we get back. Jim, I think it’s important that we go. And it’s very generous of my mother. Can I please ring her back and say yes?”

Silence. Then: “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly.

“Good. Thank you.”

She went to phone Jilly, to say they’d all love to come. Heavens, life was difficult. And of course, the evening itself wouldn’t be exactly easy, either; the tension between her mother and Jim was always there. However hard they both struggled to hide it. But—for Kate it would be worth it. Like so many things…

Jilly had pretended right from the beginning and to absolutely everyone that she liked Jim enormously. In fact she found him boring, self-righteous, and—yes, she admitted to herself—just a bit common. He even looked rather common, with his brown, neat hair and his slightly round face, and early middle-aged spread. The sort of person Helen would never have married, if things had been different. Different from Jilly being so cruelly widowed, when Helen was only three, and being left not only lonely but very hard up. With admirable courage and determination, she had exchanged her smart Kensington Mews house (of disappointing value, due to its short lease) for a modest Edwardian villa in Guildford, taken a shorthand typing course, and spent the next ten years working as a part-time secretary.

She could have married again; had had several offers. But Mike Bradford had genuinely been the love of her life, and she hated the idea of anyone becoming Helen’s stepfather. Helen was her life’s work; she was not having it thrown away on some mediocre man. Only—Helen had thrown herself away on precisely that. Very mediocre. It was dreadfully depressing. Of course Jim was extremely clever, you didn’t get to be deputy head of a comprehensive school at the age of thirty-eight if you weren’t. But even so—a teacher! For Helen! And living in a miserable little house in Ealing. And—Jim. Why Jim? Why not James, such a fine name? She had thought that, hearing it spoken for the first time at the wedding. I, James Richard, take thee, Helen Frances…

In fact, altogether—why Jim?

Jim because Helen loved him. Very much. She found him gentle and caring, and he gave her self-confidence, not only because he found her extremely attractive (“I always dreamt of a tall girl with dark hair and blue eyes; I never thought I’d get one”) but because he found her interesting and said so frequently.

Jim was a wonderful father too; supportive over the adoption business—lots of men weren’t—and terribly involved with every aspect of the girls’ upbringing: being rather old-fashioned he hadn’t actually felt it was his job to get up in the night or change nappies, but he discussed everything with her, giving it all the seriousness and attention to detail that he did to everything else in his life. Potty training, play-school, discipline. And he was so proud of them both: Kate as well as Juliet. Everyone wondered, Helen knew, if they felt differently about Juliet, being their own child rather than someone else’s, but they both said, with absolute truth, that they didn’t. They were both their children and they loved them: it was as simple as that.

By the time Kate and Juliet had arrived, Jilly was no longer a secretary; a job in the personnel department of Allders of Croydon had led to a friendship with one of the fashion buyers, who was about to open a shop of her own in Guildford; taking a tremendous chance, Caroline Norton offered her a job as deputy manageress.

“I know you don’t know anything about clothes in theory,” she said, “but anyone can see that you know all about them in practice. Please come.”

Jilly did, and Caroline B (the B was a pretty compliment to Jilly) opened in Guildford in 1984. It was a great success with the ladies of Guildford, offering real clothes for real women, as it said on the window; elegantly simple coats and dresses, stylishly soft tweed suits, and for evening, suits with wide trousers, so kindly flattering to plump, not-so-young legs. And Jilly and Caroline offered not only elegant clothes; they offered a personal service. If a dress didn’t become a client, they told her so, albeit with charm and tact; if she wanted an outfit for a particular occasion, they wouldn’t rest until they had found one for her. In 1990 a local tycoon had offered to back them in a franchise operation and there were now five Caroline Bs, all immensely successful, all run with the same careful philosophy of personal service. The nearest to London was in Wimbledon; as Caroline said, they would be lost in town.