That’s new. Mannie is used to a completeness in understanding between her parents, now she senses – what? Some slight fracturing, perhaps, although her father says nothing, merely tips his head an inch in her direction.
‘The other day, Mannie, at the Parliament, I had a visitor, a former neighbour of my parents, back in Helensburgh. Remember, I told you? From her I learned something about myself, something I never knew.’ She pauses, looks from face to face, skipping lightly over Callum’s, examining those of her family. ‘She told me I was adopted.’
Jonno is the first to speak. ‘Adopted? Wow, that’s news.’
Mannie can’t take it in. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘How can you be adopted?’
Her mother goes on. ‘At first I thought it was something I could just ignore. What difference does it make? But I find I can’t. There are—’ she hesitates and again there’s that slightest of glances at her father, ‘—aspects I find troubling. But I need to get through this and I’m going to need your support and understanding.’
Jonno says, ‘Well, it all happened a long time ago. What does it matter? Like you said, Mum, what difference does it make?’
A bubble is growing inside Mannie. A hundred questions need to be answered, myriad emotions have to be addressed. ‘You’re wrong, Jonno,’ she cries, staring at her mother as if she has never seen her before, ‘You’re absolutely wrong. Don’t you see? This changes everything.’
More emotion around the subject of her adoption is the last thing Susie needs. Jumping up from the table, she heads for the kitchen, juggling with a badly stacked pyramid of dishes. A plate slides sideways from the middle of the tower and crashes onto the slate floor. Mannie, following her in, stares at it horrified, but recovers in time to rescue the rest of the teetering pile. She slides past Susie to get to the broom cupboard. ‘I’ll get a brush and shovel.’
Susie is still motionless. ‘It’s not the plate I mind about,’ she says in a dull voice, ‘in itself. It’s just that it was my mother’s. And then when I saw it lying there, I remembered that she wasn’t my mother at all.’ She lifts her head and stares at Mannie. ‘So now I can’t decide whether I care that it’s been smashed or not. Do you understand what I mean, Mannie?’
Shards of ceramic have to come first because of Prince, so Mannie bends and deals with the task, checking with care to ensure that no jaggy fragments remain that can slice into the dog’s soft paws. She closes the lid of the bin and returns the brush to the cupboard, then puts her arms around her mother and says gently, ‘It’s a plate, Mum.’
In the silent world of the hug, the voices of the three men can be heard from the dining room. They’re talking, Susie realises, not about adoption – but about Archie’s new album.
‘—five tracks pretty much there now—’
‘—release date?—’
‘—possibly a tour in the States—’
Mannie says, ‘Right, Mum. Tell me what you know,’ and busies herself with stacking the dishwasher. Prince benefits from a bowl of scraps and demonstrates his gratitude by farting again. Susie grimaces at Mannie and they laugh. If the laughter feels a little forced, they don’t acknowledge it.
‘As I said, Mannie, I only learned about it the other day.’ Susie lifts a saucepan, wipes it with a cloth, and only then realises that it hasn’t been washed. ‘Damn. Look at this.’ Upset, she holds up the tea-towel, smeared with brown. ‘How could I do that?’
‘It’s not a problem, Mum. Just stick it in the washing machine. I’ll do the pot in a minute.’
Susie pulls out a chair and sits down heavily, still clutching the soiled cloth. ‘You can imagine how I felt. I couldn’t believe there was any truth in it.’
‘How come you didn’t know? Didn’t Gran and Gramps ever say anything? Didn’t they even leave you a note? Nothing?’
‘No, they never told me. And no, they never left me a note.’
‘How weird. Why not, do you think?’
Susie shrugs. ‘I guess I’ll never know the answer to that. Maybe they were ashamed. Maybe they thought it would upset me.’ She stretches out the cloth, pulls a face at the dirt on it, crumples it up again. ‘But they told your father.’
Mannie whirls round and stares at her mother. ‘They told Dad? So why ... Mum, why didn’t he tell you?’
Susie shrugs, a small, helpless gesture.
‘But—’ Mannie turns back and stabs at a crust in the roasting tin. It shifts suddenly and her brush slips into the water with a soft splash.
‘Yes,’ Susie says, ‘but.’ In all of this, it is Archie’s perfidy that hurts her most.
Mannie’s mind has reverted to the wider implications. ‘Have you thought about this Mum? I mean, have you really thought about what all this means? Gran and Gramps weren’t my grandparents at all. They were just some random people who happened to bring you up.’
Susie winces. Mannie, perhaps realising how hurtful her choice of words was, tries again, although her voice is thick. ‘I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean that, of course they chose you and I’m sure they wanted you very much, and I know you had a happy childhood so I guess – well, what does it mean to you? I’m trying to think about it—’ she’s gabbling now, almost incoherent, ‘—but there’s so many questions, Mum. I mean, who am I? If they weren’t really my grandparents, well, who were my grandparents? This
matters
, Mum.’ She abandons the roasting dish and clings instead to the edge of the sink for support.
Her familiar world, thinks Susie, is shifting around her. Her own hurt forgotten for a moment, she rises quickly, finds a clean towel and gently turns Mannie towards her, folding her wet hands in the soft cloth. ‘Mannie. Leave that, darling. Here. Dry your hands and come and sit down.’
‘Mum?’ Mannie’s voice comes out like a wail. She is like a small child who has fallen and grazed her knee and is looking for reassurance. Susie squats by her side, slides her arms around her daughter and hugs her, wordlessly.
They are still hugging when Jonathan walks in. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he starts, then breaks off, seeing them. ‘Oh. Everything okay?’
The sun streaming through the window falls directly on his head and his resemblance to her is striking. His rich brown hair, opulent with russet highlights, is my hair, Susie thinks. But Mannie? Her daughter’s dark, sleek locks aren’t Archie’s wavy brown or her caramel curls. She looks at Mannie through new eyes and it comes to her, forcefully, that the line to her past has been ruptured and that behind her lies only darkness.
Jon puts water in the kettle, switches it on. He joins them at the table. ‘Some news, Mum,’ he says, his voice genial and untroubled. ‘Guess it’s been a bit of a shock, huh?’
‘A bit,’ Susie admits with a small smile.
‘Does it matter?’ he asks, running his hands through the already rumpled locks. ‘I mean, you’re still Mum.’
‘Thank you,’ she says with a touch of irony. ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
Mannie bursts out, ‘Jonno! Can’t you see? Mum’s just found out that the people she thought were her parents weren’t her parents at all!’
Jon shrugs. ‘Yeah, but they were, weren’t they? They wanted her, they loved her, and they gave her everything. And Gran and Gramps were great people. This doesn’t change any of that.’
‘Of course they were. Of course. I’m not saying that. What I’m trying to say is, well, not only is there a story behind this that needs to be told, but—’ Mannie lapses, uncharacteristically, into silence and is rescued by the kettle, which has come to the boil and is hissing steam. It clicks off and emits a silly little whistle. Jon says cheerfully, ‘Tea or coffee. Dad? Callum?’ he calls out to the room next door, ‘Tea or coffee? Mum?’
He takes orders, makes both, busies himself finding mugs.
When he disappears clutching a cafetiere in one hand and three mugs in the other, Susie says quietly, ‘I know what you’re thinking about, Mannie.’ She is still holding Mannie’s hand and now she strokes her fingers softly with her thumb. ‘You need to know more. And we will find out more. One day.’
‘One day?’ Mannie looks at her, surprised. ‘You mean you’re not going to find out now?’
Susie shakes her head. ‘Not yet, Mannie. It’s all too new. I’ve got to think about this. There’s too many questions—’
Mannie interrupts, fiercely. ‘Yes! That’s why we have to find answers!’
‘Possibly. I need to think about it all for a bit.’
‘You need to think? What about me?’ It sounds peevish and childish.
‘Sweetheart, slow down a bit. I’m just getting used to this whole shock revelation. As I say, there are so many questions, I need to think it all through before I do anything.’
‘What is there to think about, Mum?’
‘Well, there are practicalities, like how do I go about finding out who I really am?’
Her voice has a slight tremor, and though she strives to conceal it, Susie’s mind is in turmoil. She releases Mannie’s hand and pours tea.
‘From what little I know, I think it could be very difficult finding out who my mother was, or at least, tracking her down. She may not want to be found. She might have died. She might have covered her tracks. Or take another scenario – what if I do track her down and we don’t get on? What if she’s resentful, or frightened, or has her own family and she hasn't told them about me? What if she’s not a very nice person? How do you think I would feel – we all would feel – about that? Shouldn’t we maybe be just thankful that I had such loving parents, who really did want me? What if she has a family, and they are also rather unpleasant? Say she’s very ill and wants to come and live here? Would we be able to take that on? It’s a minefield, Mannie, all of this. I need to think about it very carefully before I do anything.’
Mannie purses her lips then chews on the lower one. At length she smiles. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I think the place to start is probably the Register Office. I’ll call tomorrow and find out what the procedure is, will I?’
‘Tch!’ Susie laughs and shakes her head resignedly. ‘How did I know you’d say that, my darling, impossibly impatient daughter? Well, just don’t expect me to help you, Mannie, I’ve got enough other problems at the moment.’
On the way home, Mannie can talk about nothing other than her mother’s news. Cal, who is driving, grunts occasionally but doesn’t otherwise contribute to the one-sided flow of comment.
‘Can you believe it, Cal? I mean, I knew she was bothered about something, because I’ve never seen her do so badly on the telly, but
adopted!
I told her, we’ve got to find out who her mother was and why she was adopted, we have to see if she’s still around.’
Cal stops at a red light and Mannie pauses momentarily. When the light turns to green, she starts off again.
‘I’ve just realised—’ her hand flies to her mouth and she gives a small squeal. Callum inclines his head a fraction towards her, the motion showing enough interest to encourage her to continue. ‘I could have a whole other family! Christ! I could have uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents—’ she tails off, having run out of relatives to consider.
As they approach Portobello, where Cal is dropping her back home, she’s still in full flow. ‘So I said to Mum, I’ll do the spade work. I’ve got a few days off soon, I’ll do whatever I have to do. I can start by finding out what steps we have to take. I guess it could be difficult, I mean, if her mother hasn’t left many clues, but on the other hand, you never know, I could get lucky. We could know in a matter of days who—’
Cal interrupts gently. ‘Mannie, slow down will you?’ He decelerates for a corner and Mannie looks at him, surprised at the interruption to her galloping thoughts. ‘What does your mother say about this?’
‘Oh she’s cool.’ She qualifies this assertion. ‘I guess. She just said she hadn’t time to help me.’
‘Don’t you think you should let the whole thing settle for a bit, while you mull it over? You’ve all survived pretty well for, how long, fifty-odd years in your mother’s case, surely you can manage another few weeks while you work out – as a family – what steps you want to take?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ Mannie says. ‘We have to know.’
Cal spots a parking space outside Mannie’s flat and manoeuvres the car deftly into it.
‘Coming up?’
He switches off the engine, but shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so, love. I’ve still not caught up on washing and ironing and tomorrow’s going to be hectic at work. I’d better get back.’
She is distracted – momentarily – from her plans by the memory of last night. ‘Cal.’
‘Yeah?’
‘When you said we’d get a hot take-away I didn’t realise you meant, like,
hot
.’ She grins at him and is rewarded by a glint in his eye and a ‘cheeky bitch’ before he reaches across the handbrake and pulls her to him.
‘Mannie,’ he says when the kiss ends. He pulls away far enough so that he can focus on her face.
‘What is it?’ she asks, her insides still molten.
‘Oh —nothing. Just be careful what you wish for, that’s all.’
Mannie dismisses his caution with an airy, ‘I will be, I promise,’ retrieves her handbag and swings the door closed. She gives it a smart slap with the palm of her hand by way of farewell and bends to wave at him through the passenger window as he starts the engine again and pulls off.
As she opens the door to the communal stairway she can’t wait to race upstairs.
Christ,
she thinks,
just wait till I tell Jen and Myra about this.
Susie has been an actress all her life, as far back as she can remember. Even before she enlisted the help of Elsie Proudfoot’s son, Jimmy (and later of Karen) she used to line up her teddy bears and dolls on her bed and perform for them. When she was satisfied, she called her parents in and made them sit down to watch.
‘I’m doing Cinderella,’ she might say, having borrowed a pair of her mother’s best court shoes for the purpose. Or, ‘I’m Little Red Riding Hood and Daddy, you’re to be the wicked wolf. Mummy can be the grandmother.’
Where did all that acting come from? Her mother, Mary MacPherson, endlessly patient, was round and rosy cheeked, with bright little currant eyes and dark hair. She always wore a ‘pinnie’, Susie remembers a generous floral affair that tied on over her skirt and blouse. The kitchen was her domain, not the stage. Her baking was legendary – not, sadly a trait Susie has inherited, though her standby biscuits, melting moments, have become a household staple.
So: no acting gene, no baking gene. No facility with numbers, like her father, no aptitude for crosswords. She doesn’t look like either her mother, small and dumpy, nor her father, pin-neat and big-eared. These aren’t matters Susie has ever stopped to think about. Her way of dealing with life is to fly through it at breakneck speed, fill it with people and entertainment and great causes – and why would you pause to consider something that hasn’t even occurred to you?
But now everything is different. Her life has turned a cartwheel, done a back flip, ended in a somersault and has left her sprawled on the floor like a clown doing acrobatics, not knowing which way is up.
‘Don’t expect me to help you, Mannie,’ she said to her daughter. ‘I’ve got too many other problems.’ But the discouragement has clearly been insufficient to hold Mannie back, because she calls her at the Parliament a few days later.
‘I’m really busy, sweetheart,’ Susie says, ‘Can this wait?’
‘It’ll only take a minute, Mum. Listen, I’ve spoken to this agency. The first thing you’ve got to do is get hold of your birth certificate, your real one.’
‘How do I do that?’ Susie can feel herself being dragged along in the wake of Mannie’s forcefulness.
‘You take this abbreviated birth certificate thingie along to the National Records of Scotland and they cross check it against something called the Adopted Children’s Register.’
‘Goodness, it sounds daunting.’
‘It’s all right, Mum, I’ll come with you.’
Somehow, the offer doesn’t feel reassuring. ‘Can I think about it for a bit?’
‘Mu-um.’ Mannie is wheedling. ‘You don’t need to go any further if you don’t want to, but at least you’ll find out your real mother’s name. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ She is finding the whole situation bewildering.
‘Please, Mum? You’ll need to get your adoption certificate from Dad. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘I don’t imagine it will be too difficult, Mannie,’ she says, a little acidly.
Mannie apologises at once. ‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean to be patronising. Or pushy. And you don’t need to do this if you don’t want to, but—’ she lets the pause run on significantly.
‘I’ll think about it, Mannie.’ Susie can see Karen waving at her, tapping her watch and holding up seven fingers. Seven minutes till the vote. She will have to run.
‘Come on, Mum,’ Mannie pleads.
Despite her daughter’s attempts to pretend Susie is the person in control here, she’s clearly not going to let this go. Susie is amused despite herself. No wonder her daughter is such a successful saleswoman.
Mannie presses on. ‘I can’t do this for you. You have to be the one to get the birth certificate.’
‘Oh Mannie,’ she sighs tiredly, ‘I’m due in the Chamber in a minute, there’s a late debate after that, then I’m hosting a reception and my email backlog has topped three thousand. I don’t know, darling. I really don’t. Can we talk about this later? In a week or two?’
‘Mu-um. It’s important.’
Susie sighs. ‘Mannie, important is making sure that schoolchildren still have music lessons. Important is securing funding so that remote communities can still have visits from touring theatre companies. Important is enabling health care to reach people who need it and—’
‘Spare me the politics, Mum, just say yes.’
‘Sweetheart, I’ve got to go—’
But Mannie has never been a child to let go once she set her heart on something. ‘All right, Mum. Just put me on to Karen, will you?’ She says it sweetly, but there is no mistaking the determination in her voice. ‘Then you can whisk off to press those buttons or whatever it is you do for the vote. I won’t be a bother, honest.’
Maybe it is the wimp’s way out but with only four minutes to go, Susie simply hands the phone to Karen and runs.
They’re standing on the broad stone steps of the National Records of Scotland in Edinburgh’s east end.
It’s just a building. I’ll just get a bit of paper. That’s all. A piece of paper can’t hurt me.
She is trembling.
‘Okay, Mum?’
Mannie is looking at her anxiously. Susie takes her hand and squeezes it, as much to get reassurance as to give it. ‘Fine. Let’s do it.’
A piece of paper, that’s all.
They walk inside together.
‘Have you ever used another name?’ The woman at the desk asks the question diffidently.
‘My maiden name, of course.’
‘Other than that?’
Mannie nudges her.
‘Oh – you mean – yes I, well I—’ Now that it comes to it, nerves are threatening to overwhelm her.
‘Mum knows she was adopted,’ Mannie says smoothly.
‘That’s a relief.’ The soft brown eyes flicker upwards, the jaw loosens, the hands visibly relax. ‘Sometimes people aren’t aware, you know,’ the clerk goes on, leaning forward confidentially. ‘It can be quite a shock.’
For the first time in weeks, Susie begins to think she has been lucky after all. At least she isn’t standing here in this room, being landed with that bombshell.
A phone call. A wait. Another room, a stack of documents, a large ledger, another woman. ‘I’m going to show you the Court Order for your adoption,’ she says, her voice friendly.
It’s going to tell me my name.
A hot hand slips into hers. ‘It’s okay, Mum.’
Christ, it’s stifling in here.
She gathers her thick mane of hair with her right hand and scoops it back to allow what air there is to cool the back of her neck. Mannie is looking at her, excitement bubbling in her eyes. She has wound herself up over this thing like a tightly coiled spring. The energy stored in that coil is explosive, she’s scarcely able to contain her feverish anticipation. Just like she used to be before a big treat, Susie thinks, remembering her daughter at five years old, at seven, at nine, sleepless with suspense, almost sick with excitement before a trip to the zoo, the theatre, a sleepover.
The woman opens the ledger. At the top are her parent’s names – Robert and Mary MacPherson. So far, so familiar. She can feel the sweat on her forehead, on her neck. Her nerves are strung as tight as on opening night in the West End.
On the next line, for the first time, she sees the name she was given at birth.
The woman points at the first column. ‘This is your birth name.’ Susie squints at the name. Brenda Miles. My name, Susie realises with a jolt. Brenda? I’m Brenda?
‘This is your date and place of birth.’ The handwriting is rounded and loopy, the ‘R’ stylised, as though the person writing the form has been bored, has wanted to fill their days with something more exciting than filling boxes on a form. ‘Rottenrow’ it says. She studies the word. Place of birth, Rottenrow Maternity Hospital, Glasgow.
‘This is your mother’s name.’
Joyce Miles, mother.
‘And this is her signature, here.’
Susie stares at the page in the ledger, then wonderingly, she reaches out a finger and touches the signature. Her mother wrote this. Her real mother. Joyce Miles went to the Registrar to give this information. Was she there at the time, a tiny infant, wrapped in a shawl perhaps, peeking up at her mother, trustingly? Did Joyce intend to keep her at that moment, or was the decision already made to give her up for adoption? Who was with her? Joyce’s own parents, perhaps, irate because of their daughter’s illegitimate offspring? Or was she on her own, frightened and defensive? What were the circumstances that had made her give her daughter away?
A million questions teem in Susie’s brain; all unanswerable. How could you give away a daughter?
She feels ill at the idea. When Mannie was in her arms, nothing could have separated them. She remembers the anxiety she felt at leaving her daughter for a few minutes, just to go to the toilet or make a cup of tea. Would she stop breathing before she could return? What if she put her little face into the mattress and suffocated? Or just reached out for her mother and found her gone? The complicated anxieties of motherhood, rooted in a need to protect. A primal urge.
Did my mother want to keep me? Was I torn from her arms while she wept – or could she not bear the sight of me, the cause of her shame?
Brenda Miles. The oddness of it shakes her. I am Brenda. I have a mother named Joyce. And I need to know why she gave me away. The need becomes a yearning, the yearning a fundamental necessity. And yet ... it frightens her. Susie feels overcome by an emotion so profound she cannot look it in the face. She is floating, falling, like an autumn leaf on the wind. Will she hit the ground lightly or fracture with the impact? So many unknowns, too many to contemplate. Her head is bursting with imponderables.
‘Wow! You were called Brenda! How weird is that?’ Mannie giggles. ‘What else is there? No father. Bother. I hoped—’
‘There was never likely to be a father’s name, we knew that.’
‘Yeah, I know, but still. Anyway, we’ve got Glasgow. That’s something. I mean, you could have been born anywhere, I suppose.’
I could have been born anywhere.
A sense of identity, it comes to Susie, is fundamental to one’s understanding of self. She already has a new set of parents and a new name – if she had discovered she was a different nationality as well, what might that have done to her psyche? If she’d been French, perhaps, or Irish? Is it possible to feel any more insecure than she does already?
She glances at her watch and smiles at the official. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’
‘You can order a full certificate if you like.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I expect I will, but I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’ve got a Committee shortly.’
‘Oh.’ Mannie looks crestfallen. ‘I hoped we’d have time for lunch. There’s so much to talk about. I mean, we’ve got to decide what to do next.’
‘Right now, nothing,’ Susie says firmly, making for the door.
‘Nothing? But we need to find out if Joyce Miles is still alive. Then we can find out your real story.’
‘Suppose I don’t want to know?’
‘Of course you want to know!’
She is striding out briskly now, whirling through the building with fiendish energy, bestowing smiles and thanks on the security staff at the door, checking the time, desperate to just not think about it any more. On the steps outside she pauses, envelopes Mannie in a hug, then turns briskly and says, ‘We’ll talk soon, Mannie, I promise. Only not now, okay?’
She sets off briskly, striding across the junction and up South Bridge as if a horde of demons is after her and leaving Mannie staring after her and biting her lip.
The show must go on.
An old cliché, perhaps, but the adage is one that actors live by and now she is drifting like a twig in a fast-flowing current, Susie is able to draw upon the discipline of years of professionalism in order to get through the days – and not just edge through on a whisper of a prayer. By pulling on her skills, she is able to give performances that dazzle almost more now than at any time since her election.
It’s a febrile beauty, like a last flare from a firework before it fizzles out and dies. In the days following the discovery of her identity, she delivers a blistering speech from the floor of the Chamber, attacking the generally disliked Shadow Culture Minister; she appears on Question Time, where her responses are greeted with warm applause; and she speaks at a School conference where she seems to be idolised. It’s heady stuff.
At home, the story is a very different one. Far from being brilliant, her relationship with Archie has deteriorated into a series of sullen silences punctuated by the kind of humdrum exchanges necessary for the smooth continuation of everyday life.
‘Have you got any washing?’
‘Did you pay the electricity bill yet?’
‘What day do they come for the plastic recycling?’
Other than that, their paths seem to cross less and less. Susie is putting in ever longer hours at work, caught up in a whirlwind largely of her own making, and Archie is spending more and more time in his studio.
‘Do you want to shower first?’ Archie asks when they retire one night, unexpectedly, around the same time.
‘No, no, you go,’ Susie says, thinking back on the times when they would have squeezed in deliciously under the hot jet of water.
‘It’s okay, I’ll wait,’ Archie counters, coldly polite.
So she sighs and gives in. When he joins her in bed, the weird courtesy continues across the five feet of mattress. He climbs in, turns out his light and rolls on his side with a grunt, facing away from her. After half an hour of listening to his breathing and trying to work out whether he is awake, she reaches a hand out tentatively towards his shoulder. It’s only half way there when she retracts it again, awkwardly, as the now familiar sense of betrayal overwhelms her.
Discussing the adoption has become deeply difficult, with Archie turning defensive if she raises the subject. His wariness piles up wretchedness and it has become easier not to talk about it at all.
One Sunday morning a few weeks after the visit to New Register House, Susie is sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, jotting notes for a speech. Archie, who had gone into Hailesbank early to pick up the papers, pushes open the kitchen door and tosses a heavy bundle onto the scrubbed pine surface.