sUnwanted Truthst (11 page)

‘I'm taking tomorrow off as a day's leave, Dido.'

‘What an earth for? It's freezing cold.'

Jenny didn't reply. She couldn't think what to say. Of course Dido would want to know where she was going at such short notice.

‘I know: you're pining over Mike, aren't you? I bet you're going up to Reading to see him, aren't you?'

Jenny didn't contradict her.

‘That's why you look so pale. You're lovesick. Oh, that's so romantic. You'll be running away to Gretna Green next.'

*

Jenny woke early, pulling a woollen shift dress over her polo-necked jumper and went into the kitchen.

‘You're up early this morning,' said Alice.

‘Oh, I couldn't get warm in bed; so I thought I'd better get up.' Jenny scraped the sugar spoon distractedly around the bottom of the bowl. She looked closely at her mother's features, thinking it would be a lot easier just to ask her. No, she couldn't do it. She would be so upset. It might make her ill again. Anyway there was nothing to ask. It was just a doubt that would be assuaged by the end of the day.

‘Stop doing that with the spoon. It's getting on my nerves.'

‘Sorry, I'm off now.' Jenny jumped up from the table and plumped a kiss on her mother's cheek.

‘Have a good day at work. Wrap up warm, it might snow again later.'

Jenny pulled a pair of woollen ankle socks over her stockings for extra warmth before putting her feet inside a pair of fur-lined ankle boots. A coat and hand-knitted scarf completed her outfit.

She picked her way along the slippery pavements, past the windmill, its sails looming threateningly in the leaden sky. The bus drove past the office and Jenny stood up to get off. She could say that she had changed her mind. Of course she didn't want a day off today; it was ridiculous. She sat down again. No, she had to go. She had to find out that it was a mistake.

*

She sipped a cup of tea in the station cafeteria, and waited for the nine-thirty train. Choosing an empty carriage she settled herself in the window seat away from the corridor. Once through the tunnels that had been carved through the Downs, the train rattled through an arctic landscape; thick snow lay on the roofs of the cottages, and obliterated any boundaries between the fields.
I could be in Russia or Poland,
Jenny thought, the capitals of Moscow and Warsaw springing into her mind. At Wivelsfield, two amply proportioned middle-aged babushkas wearing headscarves, and carrying boat-shaped wicker shopping baskets settled opposite Jenny. They left the carriage two stops further on, leaving Jenny alone with her thoughts once more. At East Croydon the carriage filled with dour, heavy-coated men, stragglers from the rush hour. Her early doubts had evaporated, and by the time the train pulled into Victoria she had relaxed.

Jenny knew this part of London well. On earlier visits with her parents, they had often caught the bus to the East End at Victoria. There was only a small amount of grey ice lingering on the pavements, so Jenny decided to walk along Victoria Street. It was still early. A bitter east wind funnelled down from Westminster, so after only half an hour of window shopping, she caught the bus to Charing Cross. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her to find somewhere for lunch and pleased that she had a reason to delay the final leg of her journey.

She spotted an Italian coffee shop in a side street and ordered a cup of tea and a round of cheese and tomato sandwiches. It was too cold to remove her coat, so she sat huddled in a seat by the window staring at the people hurrying along outside; each one wrapped up in their thoughts as well as their clothes. She ordered a second tea, and lingered for as long as she dared. Unable to delay any longer she left, leaving half of her sandwich on the plate.

Sleet started to fall, covering her coat with white dots. She walked down the Strand and looked up at the names of the streets; Ivybridge Lane; Carting Lane, the Savoy Hotel on her right, and across Lancaster Place. Turning into the driveway to Somerset House, Jenny gazed in awe at the imposing façade. Spotting the entrance she nervously followed the signs up a curved granite staircase and into a high-ceilinged room. A scene from a novel by Dickens greeted her. Shelves filled with enormous green, red and black ledgers covered the walls. People silent with purpose stood hunched over sloping desks, and stared intently at the open ledgers. Jenny hung her coat on a wooden stand, and after asking at the enquiries desk walked to the far end of the room. Under a shelf marked “Births Abroad – Colonies and HMS Services”, stood three heavy black ledgers, each marked in gold lettering – “Adopted Children's Register”. Her heart pounded, and her mouth felt parched.

She took down the volume marked “Adoptions 1945 to 1959” and turned to the letter P. Running her finger down the page she found Pattison. Alan; Jane; Madeleine; Richard; Susan –
plenty of Susans
– she thought; Trevor; Vernon; Virginia… Virginia Ann Pattison, date of Adoption Order – December 1954.
So that must be my Virginia
. Her breathing became shallower and she felt light-headed. Nothing else existed, just herself and this ledger. She turned the page; Pearse; Pearson; Platt – Porter. She ran her index finger down the names of children, all of them with one thing in common as well as their surname. Anthony John; Barbara Elizabeth: David Howard; Felicity Ann; Gerald Joseph; Jennifer: “Jennifer Jane… date of adoption order 3
^rd
September 1946”. She stared at the typewritten letters. Her legs weakened; they were about to buckle. Gripping the edge of the desk she crept over to a nearby chair and sat down. Jenny stared at the open ledger on the high desk where she had left it.
It doesn't have to be me though
,
it could easily be some other Jennifer Jane, born and adopted in the same year, but somewhere else – Birmingham – Cornwall – anywhere. It doesn't prove that it's me just because it's my name and year of birth.
Her breathing slowed and she felt stronger. She returned to the ledger. Above her name was a Jennifer Porter, no middle name… date of adoption order 1
^st
August 1952, and below her name, a Jennifer Jayne Porter… date of adoption order 19
^th
January 1949.
So, there are other Jennifer Porters, and they're not me, but Jennifer Jane is my full name.
She returned to the chair and sat for about fifteen minutes staring into space. She went back again to the ledger. After looking at her name for over a minute, she finally replaced the ledger on the shelf. She must leave before the rush hour.

Confused and worried she walked to the bus stop in the Strand. Sleet was falling heavier now, so she sheltered in a doorway. Her thoughts alternated between thinking that the name in the ledger must belong to someone else, and having to challenge her parents about what she had found. But that was scary. From the top deck of the bus she looked down upon a mass of bowler hats, as they crawled like black draughts counters into Charing Cross Station. Leaving the bus at the end of Victoria Street, she was carried along with the waves of early evening commuters washing into the station. She wished she had left earlier.

Disembodied, she carried out the actions of someone returning from a normal day out in London; checking her watch for the time of the next train; hurrying along the platform and finding a seat in the nearest compartment. Her head spun. She was supported by a commuter on either side of her, both of them reading the
Evening Standard.

Usually she would have bought a paper herself, or at least looked over someone's shoulders at the headlines. But today, she just stared into the darkness outside of the carriage. She had to know the truth. There was no alternative.

It was drizzling as Jenny waited for the bus outside Brighton Station. She climbed the stairs to the upper deck, her head buzzing. The bus passed the greyhound stadium, where her mother had told her about her dead brother. It had been high summer. She remembered there had been golden fields in the distance; but today there was only darkness. Her head felt twice its size as she came down the stairs. The conductor turned to her, his lips moving, but she didn't hear what he said.

Fuelled by adrenaline, she slammed the front door and ran up the stairs into the kitchen.

‘You're home late.' Her mother was at the sink washing up.

‘You've got to tell me the truth, I'm adopted aren't I?' Jenny cried, her words emerging in a strange squeaky voice.

Alice turned to face her daughter. Her face drained of the little colour it had. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘I'm adopted aren't I?' A tear rolled down Jenny's cheeks. ‘Aren't I?'

Alice's hands gripped the large white sink. ‘How did you find out?'

‘It's true then, isn't it? Why didn't you tell me?'

Alice started to cry.

‘How could you not tell me?' Jenny screamed at her mother.

‘We… I was going to tell you, but it never seemed the right time. You were happy and so were we, we didn't want to upset you, and spoil everything. Then you were older and it seemed too late to say anything.'

‘Well, I'm not happy now, am I? How could you let me think that you were my parents when you're not?'

‘But we are your parents Jenny, we are.'

‘No, you're not. You've lied to me. All my life you've lied to me.'

Alice wiped her eyes with the edge of the tea-cloth. Jenny fixed her eyes on the crumpled words. “A gift from Guernsey”.

‘No we haven't, we've loved you. No one else could have loved you more. We thought that when you were twenty-one, or married and settled, we'd tell you then, when it wouldn't upset you.' Alice moved towards her daughter to hug her. But Jenny, frightened at the intensity of her emotions, backed away.

‘Who was my mother then?'

‘She was just a young girl, she wasn't from around here. We'd just moved down and she couldn't look after you. She was on her own.'

‘What about my father then, who's he?'

‘He was a soldier. It was the end of the war. Things were different then.'

‘How can I believe you? How can I believe anything you say ever again?' Jenny shouted, thinking about her dead brother.

‘Jenny, Jenny.' Alice moved towards her daughter again. ‘We thought it was for the best. We would never hurt you, you know that.'

‘Well you have, haven't you? Don't touch me,' Jenny stepped back.

‘Who else knows? What about Auntie Doris and everyone else?'

‘No one else knows. Dad and I moved down here as soon as the war had finished. We didn't want to go back to living in London, not after losing Christopher, we couldn't anyway, everywhere was bombed. They think you're our daughter, and you are, Jenny, you are. We thought if we told them, they might treat you differently, we didn't want that. There was no need for them to know.'

Previous visits to relatives flashed into Jenny's mind. ‘You're still lying to me. Aunt Doris knows, she said something once – at Leslie's wedding.'

‘What did she say?'

‘I can't remember exactly – I thought she meant something else. It just sounded a bit strange when I thought about it later.'

‘Well, she doesn't know, it's just that she… she doesn't know Jenny.' Her mother started to weep again. But all that mattered was that she wasn't who she thought she was. She wasn't their child. She didn't know who she was anymore.

‘I'm going to my room.' Sobbing, she ran from the kitchen, slammed her bedroom door and collapsed on her bed.

Jenny heard her father's voice from deep inside the sitting room. ‘What the hell's going on Gal?'

She heard her mother's low sobbing and a muttering of words.

‘How the hell did she find out? What's happened? How does she know?'

‘I don't know Charlie. I don't know.'

‘You were going to tell her when she was older, weren't you?'

Then her mother said something she couldn't quite hear.

‘No, leave her, Gal, leave her. Let her be for now. She'll calm down best if she's left on her own. You can talk to her tomorrow.'

*

Jenny lay on top of her bed still wearing her coat and boots, and stared through the bare window at the night sky. The drizzle had cleared. A few stars were trying to peep through the remaining clouds, like torch beams in a fog. She re-played her mother's words, again and again. How could they not have told her? She made a promise to herself that she would never lie to her children, if she had any. Her stomach rumbled. Normally she would have eaten her dinner over an hour ago. She pulled herself up, leant back against the pillows and reached for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. She didn't know anyone who was adopted. None of her friends had ever mentioned that they were. A knife twisted inside her gut. She must be illegitimate – a bastard. She had heard the word tossed about; a word that had nothing to do with her. Now it meant everything. She'd been given away – unwanted. There must be something wrong with her. Her mother's pleas that no one could have loved her more, were of no account. She felt only shame.

An hour later Jenny crept into the kitchen for a biscuit and some water; she opened the door of the oven. Two lamb chops lay shrivelled on a plate. She closed the door and started to hiccup. Back in her bedroom she removed her boots and coat and lay back down on the bed. Normally she would have kissed her parents before going to bed, but not tonight; they had lied to her. They were not her parents. She thought about work the next day. She didn't want to go, but if she didn't, she would have to phone and explain why. Then she'd have to stay at home, with her, just the two of them. No, that would be worse. She set her alarm clock, undressed and lay heavy-bodied under the weight of the blankets. She tossed and turned. The luminous hands on her clock showed five-thirty. She lay and stared at the icy patterns of frost on the inside of the windowpane and remembered. After falling into the deep early morning slumber of an insomniac, she woke to the shrill bell of her alarm.