The Things We Never Said (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jonathan sits in his mother’s kitchen, trying not to shiver in his wet clothes. He looks at his birth certificate again.
Name and surname of father
is blank.
Name, surname and maiden surname of mother: Margaret Letitia Harrison
. Only a maiden surname. He pulls out the adoption order.
In respect of Jonathan Hugo Harrison
, it says,
an infant
. He wonders why they didn’t change his first names, but he’s glad; these are the names his birth mother gave him. It feels like some sort of connection with who he might really be. Beneath the clothes and papers there’s a little lace-up boot made of soft red leather, a tiny knitted teddy bear, and a small bundle of something in a piece of black velvet, which he unwraps to reveal seven pebbles, all with holes in.

‘It was just those few things,’ his mother says as she brings the teapot to the table. ‘The agency said they were to stay with you. You loved that teddy bear; and the little boot – the other one must have been lost before you came to us, but you hung on to that one for dear life. You never showed much interest in the stones, though; I suppose you’d picked them up on the beach near where you lived.’

‘The beach? I thought I was born in Sheffield. Or wasn’t that true either?’

His mother flinches.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so—’

‘You were. The short version of your birth certificate is accurate – your birth was registered in Sheffield. But when you came to us, it was definitely from East Sussex. We lived just outside Hastings then, but we moved; we didn’t want to be too near your . . . your natural mother.’

‘Hastings? So that’s where you adopted me from?’

She nods as she lights a cigarette. Jonathan digs his thumbnails into his fingertips to stop himself reaching for one. He’s been doing fairly well up until today, but now he wants to rip the filter off a full-strength Marlboro and smoke it down to the very last fibre.

‘They wrote to say we’d been accepted, and a few days later, the lady from the agency telephoned. She said she was sure they’d find a match quite soon – they used to try to match the baby’s hair and eye colour with that of the adoptive parents—’

‘So there wouldn’t be any awkward questions, no doubt.’

‘Jonathan.’ She looks at him steadily. ‘Things were different then. There were so many babies coming up for adoption; so very many. Was it really wrong to try and minimise the physical differences between them and their new parents? Goodness, there were enough other differences people had to cope with.’ She stands and switches on the light; the room has grown dark even though it’s still only the middle of the afternoon.

He glances out of the window; a few flakes of snow are beginning to fall. It’s the coldest January for twelve years, apparently. He thinks of the thick cardigan with the duckling buttons and wonders whether it was this cold in the winter of 1964, whether it was snowing on the day he’d become a Robson instead of a Harrison. He turns back to his mother.

‘But why was I so . . . I mean, why was I the age I was?’

‘I’m coming to that.’ The edge of impatience to her voice is reassuring; her vulnerability is harder to cope with than the tetchiness he’s used to.

‘Mrs Wells from the agency – ever such a nice lady – said they’d probably have a match in a few weeks. They knew they had more babies coming in.’ She glances up at him. ‘I know; it does sound a bit like a shop, doesn’t it? But they had their own mother and baby homes, you see. Anyway, Mrs Wells said it could be sooner if we were prepared to consider an older baby. They told me about you, and I said yes immediately. She told me to think about it, talk it over with Gerald. But I knew I wanted you. With the miscarriages, I’d already lost five babies, and you’d lost your mother . . .’

He starts and looks up, but she shakes her head. ‘No, no, I’m sorry, I don’t mean she’d passed on. She’d gone away somewhere apparently; left you with a brother.’

But he mishears her. ‘I had a brother?’

‘No,
her
brother. She didn’t have any other children. She was quite young, I think.’

Momentarily, he pictures a brother, fourteen or fifteen; the two of them, stranded like orphans, depending on each other. He shakes away the fantasy sibling. ‘So, what, she just got fed up with me and set off round the world?’

His mother shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I don’t know the details.’

‘And what about . . .’ he feels his stomach contract, ‘. . . what about the man who . . . I mean, my biological father?’

She sighs. ‘We never knew anything about him. I don’t think they knew who he was.’

So, these people who created him: his father did something so bad that they’re still looking for him forty years on, and his mother . . . had she known who his father was? Maybe she had; maybe she just kept his name off the birth certificate in order to protect him. What sort of woman did that make her? These were his parents.

‘I wonder what he did?’

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘My . . . the biological father; the one the police are still after. I’d like to know what I’m descended from.’

His mother clicks her tongue. ‘I shouldn’t think about that if I were you.’

‘Mum, you can’t always avoid difficult—’

‘Darling, listen.’ She reaches across the table and lays her hand on his. He almost pulls away, purely out of surprise. Her skin is cool and dry, the weight of her tiny hand negligible. ‘Whatever it was, there’s nothing that can be done about it now. That policeman, Mr Hutchinson, he said they never close these cases, but I don’t know what good ever comes of raking up the past, I really don’t.’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘It’s best to move on.’ She looks at him. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’d be moving on
from
.’

As he prepares to leave, he sees her slide a small white envelope under the lid of the box. She looks more than tired, he thinks; she’s haggard with exhaustion. He feels a powerful impulse to reassure her, but of what? Her status as his mother? His as her son? He should kiss her; embrace her, at least. But he hesitates and the moment is lost.

He drives a little way up the road before pulling over and taking out the envelope he saw her add to the box.

He reads it twice before noticing that she hasn’t signed it. He pictures her sitting at the dining-room table, agonising over whether to use the word ‘Mum’. Still holding the note, he tips his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, both to shut out the image and to hold back the tears that are starting to form. Gerald often used to refer to her as ‘Daphne’ rather than ‘your mother’; maybe he’s even done the same himself. He hopes not; he really hopes not.

He swallows back the tears and sets off again, and as he does so his stomach growls; the last thing he ate was the greasy remains of a chicken chow mein at eight this morning. It’s still only just gone three; how can so much have happened in so few hours?

CHAPTER THIRTY

When Maggie wakes, it is dusk, and the nurses are switching on the soft orange lights above the beds. She looks along the ward and sees that some of the women have babies by their sides. That’s when she remembers. She summons every thread of strength she has left. ‘Nurse!’ she calls. ‘Nurse! I’ve changed my mind; I’m going to keep them.’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ the nurse says. ‘You’re just exhausted. You’ve been very poorly, but you’ll feel better in the morning.’

Maggie starts to shout, demands to see her babies.

‘Now, now, now.’ The ward sister bustles in and smoothes the bedcovers. ‘Whatever is this commotion, Mrs Harrison? You’ll upset the other ladies.’

‘It’s Miss Harrison,’ Maggie says weakly.

‘I know, dear. It’s a courtesy title. Now, what’s all this nonsense? Are you going to settle down or am I going to have to call Matron?’

‘I’ve changed my mind, Sister. I was going to have the baby adopted, but now it’s twins and it’s not their fault and they might have died and I’m their mother and I need to look after them and—’

‘Hang on, there!’ The sister holds up a palm. ‘Slow down, now. You’re bound to feel a little emotional for a few days – giving birth upsets the nerves, especially with young ladies in your particular situation. But you’ll get over it. Why don’t you get a good night’s sleep—’

‘No! I don’t want to sleep. I want to see Matron. They’re my babies and you’ve got no right to keep them from me, and if you—’

‘That’s enough, Mrs Harrison! Matron will be along directly, so save it for her.’ Sister plumps the pillows and, Maggie is almost certain, smiles.

*

Three days later, Maggie looks up to see Dr Sarka walking down the ward. He’s wearing a dark grey overcoat and a matching hat, which makes him seem taller. He removes the hat as soon as he spots her, and when he stands next to the bed, she can smell the faint spiciness of his skin and feel the cold on his clothes.

He asks how she is, and nods gravely when she says she’s sore but not too bad, considering. Then he looks her in the eye and says that Matron has told him, and does Maggie really think she’s being sensible. How will she cope with two babies and no husband, he asks, and what’s more, no income?

Crossing her fingers, she tells him her brother will look after her. ‘I know they all think I’m mad. Matron says I’ll be denying them a happy life with proper parents. But I can be a proper parent, I know I can. It’s not their fault they were born, and I can’t just throw them away like last week’s cheese.’

Dr Sarka sighs. ‘Life can be difficult for unwed mothers,’ he tells her, ‘and for illegitimate children. You mustn’t be afraid to change your mind again, you know.’ He picks up his hat, bows slightly, and says he’ll see her soon.

She nods, and thanks him. But she knows she won’t change her mind.

Soon after Dr Sarka leaves, Vanda pops in on her way to work. She’s wearing an old army greatcoat and brown Crimplene slacks, but Maggie can see that underneath, she’s wearing her stage costume, a turquoise sequinned one-piece that she usually wears with glittery silver tights. Vanda kisses her and hands her a bag of oranges and a bar of chocolate.

‘Lovely, thanks. Where’s Boris?’

‘In his bag on the back seat of the taxi. Hope he doesn’t wake up!’

They both smile.

‘Van,’ Maggie says, ‘I . . . I’ve decided to keep them.’

Vanda’s mouth drops open. It’s the first time Maggie has seen her literally speechless.

‘But you can’t’, she says eventually. ‘What will you live on?
Where
will you live?’

Maggie reassures her that she’ll move out as soon as she leaves hospital. She’ll probably go back to Hastings to stay with Leonard, she explains, at least for the time being. Then she falls silent. She wishes she felt as confident as she sounds. She’s written to tell Leonard she’s keeping the babies, but the letter only went yesterday and she’s not sure how he’ll react.

‘I’ve asked Leonard to employ me as his housekeeper, at least until the twins are old enough for nursery. He’s been paying a daily ever since I left, and he never wanted me to move away in the first place, so it should be all right.’

Vanda nods slowly. ‘I can’t say I won’t miss you.’

‘Me too.’ A wave of sadness washes over her. She’d arrived in Sheffield so full of plans and dreams. This was going to be her home; a new place, a new self. ‘Thanks for letting me stay, and for everything else – you know, before.’

Vanda waves the words away, seems about to speak but then hesitates.

‘What is it?’ Maggie asks.

‘Well, I was thinking, what if the babies, I mean what if they start to look like . . .’

Maggie shakes her head. ‘They’re nothing to do with him. Nothing!’ After a pause, she glances up and down the ward. All the nurses are busy with the new mother who came in during the night, pale, bruised-looking and exhausted, just as Maggie had been a few days ago. ‘Would you like to see them?’ she whispers.

Vanda nods. ‘Are we allowed?’

‘Not really. I’m only supposed to go to the nursery when it’s feeding time.’

‘Sounds like a zoo,’ Vanda says.

‘Smells like one as well,’ Maggie laughs. It’s so long since she’s done so that she is acutely aware of the unfamiliar sensation in her facial muscles.

The twins lie facing each other in the cot, curled into one another like the petals of a tulip. They have to sleep together, according to the nursery nurse, or they ‘get right mardy, rooaring and carrying on like it’s end o’t world.’

‘What a pair of little poppets.’ Vanda’s face softens as she gazes at the sleeping babies.

Maggie reaches into the cot, suddenly craving the warmth of a newborn infant in her arms. When she’d held her babies for the first time – once the staff had finally accepted that she was determined to keep them – she’d been enchanted by the weight of each tiny head resting against her shoulder, intoxicated by the warm, talcum-powdery smell of her son’s skin, the salty dampness of her daughter’s hair. Her son; her daughter; how could she have considered giving them away?

‘Mother! What are you doing out of bed?’

Maggie snatches her hand back. ‘Sorry, Matron, I—’

‘Nurse will fetch you when Baby needs feeding. Now run along.’

Hot tears gather in Maggie’s eyes. How can Matron have already forgotten there are two babies, not one? And isn’t
run along
the most ridiculous thing you can say to a new mother? As she makes her way slowly back along the ward, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, she wonders if she’ll ever be able to walk normally again.