I heard the click of Theo's key in the lock; he'd been next door helping Beverley with her VAT return.
'Look at these old LPs, ' he exclaimed. 'Are they yours? The Partridge Family. Who the hell are they?' I suddenly felt very old. 'And the Jackson Five. My God—Michael Jackson looks black. What have we got here? Mudd. The Bay City Rollers… and what's this one? Marie Osmond! This stuff must be worth a fortune, Rose!'
'Stop it. You're making me feel like an antique. '
'I'm sorry. ' He smiled. 'I used to tease my wife like that, it drove her mad. '
'She's almost as ancient as I am, isn't she?'
'That's right. '
'How was Beverley?' I asked changing the subject.
'Not too bad, a bit depressed. '
'I suppose her bloke's gone off?' Theo looked at me. 'That Scottish guy? The conductor. '
'Oh yes. Hamish. That's right. He's gone abroad, so she's rather, you know, down in the mouth, plus Trevor's got a bit of a cold. '
'Does she want to come round and eat with us? I could cook. '
'I already asked her and she said no. '
I've noticed that Beverley always prefers to be left alone when she has these occasional dark moods. So Theo and I spent the evening playing Scrabble as we quite often do—and I was just thinking about my nuisance phone calls and how they seem to have stopped, when, by one of those strokes of telepathy or simple coincidence, I had another one. The phone rang at eleven, and I picked it up and it was the heavy breather again.
'Who was that?' Theo asked.
'The Poison Panter. '
He pulled a face. 'Oh dear. Again. '
'Well they say it's good to stalk. '
'You don't seem that worried about it, Rose. '
'I'm not. It's beginning to wash over me. '
'And what was it like this time?'
'It was quite heavy, and asthmatic: I almost felt sorry for him. You know, ' I said as I sat down again and stared at my rack of letters, 'there's something slightly odd about it all. With other silent calls they often ring several times in a row, to annoy you, but my caller always stops after one. '
'Well he's obviously a considerate nuisance. '
'Or she is. I still don't know. '
'I thought you were going to bar the calls. '
'I've tried, but the phone company's always engaged. I hung on for twenty minutes yesterday listening to synthesised "Greensleeves"; in the end I had to give up. Anyway whose go is it? Mine. No, don't look at the letters when you're picking, Theo, that's cheating. '
'But I need some more vowels. Right, what have you got?' I stared at my letters: I had two 'e's, then 'p, ' 'r, ' 'a, ' 'o, ' 'h'—that would make 'Oprah, ' or 'Harpo, ' but proper nouns aren't allowed.
'Okay, I've got… this. ' I put down ORPHA on top of Theo's TENT.
'Orphan. That gives you… twenty-four with the double word score. '
'I'm an orphan, ' I said with a rueful smile.
'Oh yeah. You should go into a children's home. Anyway, you're probably not an orphan, ' he said with another swig of beer. He picked up his letters and put 'ARENTS' across the P of ORPHAN. 'Your natural mother's probably still alive. And who knows, maybe your father is too. ' I looked at him. 'They might not even be sixty yet. They've probably got another twenty years left. ' If anyone else had mentioned my natural parents to me I'd have given them the liquid nitrogen treatment but, coming from Theo, I didn't mind. He picked up the
Times
magazine.
How to do Mother's Day in Style
! it shouted in pink letters.
The Strongest Link
!
'I always think of my mother at this time of year, ' Theo said as he flicked through it.
'I always think of mine too. '
'Your adoptive mother?' I shook my head. 'Do you mind if I ask you about your adoptive parents?' he said with uncharacteristic diplomacy as I took some more letters out of the bag.
'No, I don't mind. Fire away. '
'You don't seem to have been very close to them. '
'I wasn't. '
'I knew that from the casual way you reacted when their photo was stolen. ' I shrugged. 'Rose, what were they like?'
'What were they like? Well, ' I explained, as I put my letters on the wooden rack, 'they were about a foot shorter than I am. And… they were very strait-laced, and extremely devout. We spent an awful lot of time in the Bethesda Baptist Chapel at weekends, ' I added. 'Which is why I don't go to church now. I'd say that they meant well and that they were decent people, but.
'But what?'
I sighed. 'Well, ' I began chewing on my lower lip, as I always do when I'm stressed, 'there were a number of things. For a start, and I've never told anyone else this, Theo—not even the twins—I suppose I simply never felt that I
belonged
with them. My father ran a shoe shop, semi-bespoke, and I'd watch him fitting someone with a pair of shoes, measuring their feet properly, widthways and lengthways, examining their arch and their instep—getting it just right. And I'd think that I didn't fit with them. '
'Because you didn't look like them?'
'Oh no, it wasn't that. If there'd been a stronger bond that wouldn't have mattered. It was because they weren't very, well, parental, I suppose. I didn't want for anything, and they weren't unkind, but nor were they ever really… affectionate. I felt like their guest, not their daughter. I'd watch the twins' mother hugging them when she came to fetch them from school and I'd feel the most terrible pang. And my parents didn't really know how to play with me, so I had to amuse myself. They weren't that tolerant of children really, I was always being told not to make a mess. '
'That's probably why you're so tidy, ' he said. 'Although… ' he looked around, 'standards have been slipping a bit lately. '
'Mm. I don't know why. '
'Because you're relaxing, Rose. ' I realised that he was right. 'Tell me more about your parents, ' he added softly.
'Well I often used to wonder why they'd adopted me, ' I went on, 'and I found out the answer after they died. '
'What did you find out?'
I kept my eyes fixed on the Scrabble board while I wondered whether or not to reply. 'I found out that they'd adopted me for all the wrong reasons. '
'Which were?'
'Pity. '
He looked at me. 'How do you know?'
'Because after they'd died I was going through their things and in my dad's desk I found a file with all sorts of stuff relating to my adoption, none of which I'd ever seen. There were some letters from the social services and some family correspondence and some other bits and pieces. When I was little they told me that they'd really wanted to have a nice baby like me, and that they'd chosen me specially, but that was a lie. They did it out of Christian charity. That's what they actually said. I found a copy of a letter my dad had written to the adoption people in which he said that he felt it was his "duty to take in this unfortunate child". '
'I still don't understand, ' said Theo. 'In order for them to adopt you they must have been registered with the adoption service for quite a long time first. '
'No, they weren't. This was in 1962, it wasn't like it is now. These days there are less than five hundred babies a year available for adoption: then there were twenty-seven
thousand
a year—you could virtually hand-pick your baby, and there weren't the endless waiting lists and interrogations that there are now. The abortion act of 1967 changed everything for obvious reasons and after that adoption became hard. Anyway, I'd always got on reasonably well with my parents, although I'd never have said we were close. But when I saw all that stuff I felt totally… different about them: it was as though that part of my life had closed. '
'But didn't you feel, with their deaths, that another part of your life might open?'
'I—I don't know what you mean. '
'Didn't it make you want to find your real mother?' I looked at him. 'Don't you want to find her?'
Did I
? 'I think you do. '
'Well—'
'When are you forty?'
'June the first. I think. '
'You think?'
'Well, I'm not totally sure. That's what was on my birth registration anyway'
Theo furrowed his brow. 'I think your fortieth is the catalyst. You do want to find her, don't you, Rose?' I had another sip of beer. 'I think you've wanted to find her for some time. That's your problem. You do and at the same time you don't. You're such good fun, Rose, but you cast a long shadow and I believe that that's the reason why. '
'That's not the reason at all, ' I said quietly. 'And you're wrong to assume that it is, Theo, because I've never told anyone the truth. '
'But I think the truth is that you've never forgiven her for giving you up. '
'If only it were that simple. '
'What do you mean?'
'I—' I bit my lip.
'Think, Rose, they used to say that life begins at forty so why don't you make that the watershed to make
your
life start again? Don't you want to know your mother?' I looked at him, and felt a tightening in my throat. 'Don't you want to see her face?'
'I—' I felt tears prick the back of my eyes.
'Don't you want to talk to her and ask her questions about, well, who you are?'
'I—' By now my cheeks were burning and Theo's features had started to blur.
'You do, Rose, ' he said urgently, 'I know you do. ' I stared at my lap. 'Don't you?'
'Yes, ' I croaked. 'I
do
want to know her. I
do
want to find her. Of
course
I do—but I
can't
!
'You can!'
'No. I can't. It's not that straightforward. '
'It is. '
'It
isn't
!'
'Why not?'
'I can't say. '
Theo passed me his handkerchief and I pressed it to my eyes.
'Rose, ' he said, 'I don't want to hurt you, but I think I know the reason. '
I looked up at him and stared. 'You can't possibly know, ' I whispered hoarsely.
'I think I do. I've guessed. '
'Guessed what?'
'Well—that you're afraid. You're afraid that your mother might not want to know, and you just can't stand it because it would be as though she'd rejected you twice. '
'Sorry, Doctor Freud—your diagnosis is wrong. '
'I think it's right. And it's totally understandable, because you felt your mother had rejected you so badly before. '
'I didn't
feel
she'd rejected me. She
did
reject me, ' I said hotly.
'Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it, ' I added as a hot tear rolled down my cheek.
'Then why can't you find her, Rose? There are all these adoption agencies, and private detectives and people who'll do an internet search. It would be quite easy for you to track her down, surely?'
'No it wouldn't!'
'Why not?'
'Because… '
'Because what?'
'Because it just
wouldn't
—that's why. '
Theo's face expressed a mixture of compassion and total non-comprehension.
'Rose, 'he said gently. 'Tell me in words that I can understand. Why can't you find your mother? She gave you up for adoption so there must be paperwork available by which she can be identified. '
'No, there
isn't'
, I said. 'That's the whole point. There isn't any paperwork. There isn't anything. '
'Why not? Was it destroyed? Maybe there was a fire and it was burnt, ' he added. I shook my head. 'Then what's the reason?' he persisted. '
Why
can't you try and find her?'
'Because, ' I said as a wave of blackness engulfed my chest. 'Because I wasn't just "given up for adoption" as you say' I stared at him, my temples throbbing. I could hear the beat of my heart.
'What do you mean?' he said. 'I don't understand. ' Right, I thought. This is it.
Now
.
'I was
found, '
I said. 'I was… found. I was abandoned. ' My hands sprang up to my face.
'Oh, Rose. ' There was a few seconds' silence, then Theo's hand reached out for mine.
'I was thrown away. Like a piece of rubbish. I was discarded. I was ditched. I was dumped. I was left, unclaimed, like so much excess baggage.
There, '
I wept. 'Now you know. That's what really happened to me, Theo. ' My mouth ached with sobbing, and my breath came in ragged gasps.
'Oh, Rose, ' he said again as I cried like a child, shudderingly, inconsolably. 'I'm so sorry… but where? Where were you found?'
'In a fucking supermarket trolley in a fucking car park!' I wailed.
'Oh, Christ. ' He was lost for words. 'And… when did you find this out?'
'When I was eighteen, ' I said reaching for a tissue. 'I saw the registration of my birth for the first time on my eighteenth birthday. And where it said Mother's Name it said "Unknown" and where it said Father's Name it said "Unknown, " and where it said Place of Birth it said "Unknown". And then it added "Found in the Co-Op car park in Chatham, Kent, on 1. 8. 62". For the date of birth it said "Unknown, but probably on or about 1. 6. 62" because I was judged to be about eight weeks old. '
'Eight weeks?'
'Yes, she kept me for eight weeks, ' I sobbed. 'Eight
whole
weeks; two months—and then she did that. That's what's always hurt more than anything else. Knowing that she'd kept me that long. Knowing that she'd fed me and held me and cuddled me… ' I stopped.
He came and sat beside me on the sofa and I felt his arms encircle me. 'Poor Rose, ' he whispered. 'Poor Rose. '
'And when I got back home and told my mum what I'd seen she said: "Oh yes I do vaguely remember something in the paper about a baby having been abandoned. " But she never mentioned it again, and nor did Dad. And I never mentioned it either, because I was filled with hate after that. I no longer wanted to find my real mother in the way I had before. I just couldn't believe that she'd done that to me, and so I cut her right out of my heart. I cut her out like a tumour, Theo—I "vanished" her—because that's the only way I could survive. I put her in a compartment in my head, and shut the door, and that door's been locked ever since. '