Authors: Anne Berry
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘How do I know?’ she mimicked, wrong-footed.
‘How do you know that she’s happy, that Lucilla’s happy?’ I said, rising and glaring at her.
‘You must leave this behind you! You have Lowrie now,’ she importuned. ‘Can’t you make the most of
her
, of the richness she brings to your life? You’re in danger of alienating your own daughter.
If
you don’t make more of an effort you may lose her, too!’ I gulped a breath that was half a sob. My mother sighed and closed her eyes, squeezing her eyelids as if she had a sick headache. When she reopened them, real anguish caused them to sparkle with unshed tears. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. What I’m trying to say is that you’re in danger of missing what you have with your family, here, now, by looking backwards.’
In the grate the fire caved into its hollow heart with a sputter and flurry of red sparks. I shook my head violently. ‘If it were that simple, Mam, don’t you imagine I’d do it. If I could I would set her down and move on without her. But I can’t. I’ve tried, oh dear God, I’ve tried. What I would give to leave her in the past, to rid my life of her. But my baby is branded on my heart. She is with me every waking moment.’ My pitch throughout this was repressed but urgent. As I gathered up the cups, we heard approaching footsteps. My mother placed a finger to her lips and mouthed, ‘She must never know. Never!’ The door flew open and Lowrie burst in, rushing up to her grandmother and throwing herself into her arms with greedy desperation.
Chapter 21
Lucilla, 1999
THE FOURTEENTH OF
February. Valentine’s day. There is snow, lots of it, and it is bitterly cold. Rudolph-red-nose weather. Normally, I adore the snow, the stark uncompromising air of winter. But this winter I’m grieving. Merlin has passed away. They let me bury him in the grounds. It’s a peaceful spot in the woods. I’ve covered his grave with rocks so I’m hopeful no fox will dig him up. He was sixteen, a veteran in dog years. I miss him like a raging toothache. Damn and blast! Why can’t dogs have the lifespan of humans? Why can’t they trundle beside you all your days? They’ve got a small pet cemetery at the rear of the house. A clutch of lollipop tombstones with the dearest inscriptions on them, enclosed with wrought-iron railings. There is a dinky gate that creaks loudly when you push it open, like a sound effect in a horror film. And there are tall conifers leaning over it protectively, perfuming the air with the resinous scent of their sap.
While he was still sprightly enough to inspect the grounds, I asked Merlin if he fancied being buried there. Of course he didn’t give a direct answer. But he rolled his milky eye at me and there was such an expression of disdain on his face, snub nose held high, that I believe I interpreted it aright as aloofness. He was no common sort, my Merlin, my canine Anubis. Lie with other hounds of uncertain pedigrees for eternity? Not likely. He wanted a graveyard all to himself. And so I
accommodated
him. I think he’s pleased with the site. Rabbits and squirrels galore, perfumed peace to keep his spectral nose twitching – an ideal resting place.
It was God-awful at the end. There is a footbridge on the estate and he was nosing around the stone balustrade. It had been raining, and he slipped and fell a good six feet onto the path below. Unbelievably, he didn’t break anything. But in the weeks afterwards his rear end seemed gradually to become atrophied, until he was dragging it behind him like a withered limb. He was basket-bound in his final days. His breathing became laboured and he stopped eating. He would lap water out of my hand though. I liked the sensation of his tiny tongue rasping against my palm. I took him to the vet. Henry came. He held my hand in his and I held Merlin’s paw. I had the strangest feeling of déjà vu recalling Scamp’s death all those decades ago. We brought him home bundled up in my pearly-grey satin quilt. I shall miss Merlin when I lie on our bed and probe for his silky fur with my toes.
Enough of woe. The joyous tidings are that I have gained a puppy. Well, she is four months old, an English Springer spaniel, as flexible as a rubber band and as bouncy as a super ball. Her coat, liver and white, is like floss, and she has winsome brown eyes that plead a permanent state of malnutrition. How did I come to acquire this limpid-eyed, piston-legged addition to our family? I expect you have a shrewd idea and you would be correct. When Henry initially and with his trademark diffidence mooted the possibility of buying another dog, I dispensed it with a vehement diatribe.
‘How can you have the insensitivity to assume that Merlin, my dear, dear Merlin, can be so easily replaced? Why you’re no better than my adoptive mother who decided when I did not work out, that her and my adoptive father should shop around again, and come back with a ready-made faultless Barbara!’ I screeched, wife to a whole ocean of fish. This last taunt was unforgivable and the instant the words had left
my
mouth, I wanted more than anything to take them back. But it was too late. The hurt in Henry’s blue eyes was palpable. We were in the kitchen, me stirring a cheese sauce in a desultory fashion guaranteed to produce a lumpy inedible affair. Slowly, I shuffled about to make my abject apology, but Henry had disappeared.
‘Going for shower. Digging the beds today ready for the summer planting. Bit grubby, my love,’ I heard him call back to me, and then the thump of his footsteps receding on the stairs.
For minutes I stared miserably and repentantly at the scrubbed but stubborn spatter pattern on the magnolia emulsion, the backdrop chronicling far more appetising meals. When the distinct acrid odour permeated my nostrils, I glanced down to see that the sauce now resembled something my mother might have proudly dished up. As soon as it was sufficiently cool, I began scraping it into the bin. At this disheartening, guilt-ridden moment, Henry chose to re-enter the kitchen. He was beaming as if nothing untoward had happened, attired in fresh clothes that smelled angelically of fabric conditioner, his shaggy hair, beard and moustache still dripping from the shower. He shook himself as though he was a playful dog bounding out of the River Mole after a refreshing dip. No more was said that night as we ate our rolls and tinned minestrone, judiciously refraining from comment on the sudden change of menu.
However, come the weekend, Henry announced that he was taking me on a magical mystery tour in honour of a group whose music we did and do still idolise – the Beatles. We took a train to Guildford, and then we took a bus to Bramley, and then we walked a leafy lane and from thence trod a winding drive to a farm. I was intrigued. Henry marched purposefully up to the front door and rang the bell, as if this was the most ordinary thing to do when you arrive at house you have not visited before. In due course, it was opened by a tall woman of advanced years, with an authoritative hook nose,
kind
but firm grey eyes, a scarf tied at her chin, and wearing Wellington boots.
‘Ah, Mr Ryan, Mrs Ryan, punctual I am pleased to see,’ she said, shaking both our hands in a steel grip. ‘Mrs Gregory,’ she introduced herself, jabbing a none too clean thumb into her chest. She appeared unbothered by our arrival on her farm. ‘Follow me,’ she ordered in a military tone, striding past us in her jeans and sweater. She led the way in the bright spring sunshine to a barn, shoving wide the door and beckoning us through with a wave of her arm. Inside were some stalls currently empty of occupants, in the process of being mucked out by a young farm lad. She greeted him with a swift businesslike nod. ‘The Ryans,’ she said by way of explanation. He too nodded, his tufted light-brown hair shedding a straw or two as he did so. The half-door to the fifth stall was closed. We drew level and one by one peered over it. And there on a bed of fresh dry hay, reclining in maternal majesty, was a beautiful English Springer spaniel, while all about her tumbled six hyperactive puppies.
‘Hello, Suzie,’ Mrs Gregory said, her brisk manner replaced with one of unashamed adulation. We all three slipped inside the stall. While she embraced Suzie with an affection clearly reserved for those lacking human DNA, she directed us to select one, with the adjunct that the two biggest bitches were spoken for, but we could have our pick of the three dogs and the smallest bitch. Under attack by squirming licking puppies from every quarter, whose eyes beseeched and whose yelps entreated
take me, take me, take me
, it was the tiniest who demanded my immediate focus. This scrap, batted out of the way by its stronger healthier siblings, kept rolling and skidding into the sides of the stall, then rebounding like a furry ball.
I extricated myself from the tangle, and crossed to where the smallest puppy was readying herself for another assault. I bent and picked her up. She snuggled into my arms with a sigh of relief. ‘I want
her
,’ I declared, my steady voice belying the wobble of my heart and the clench of my stomach.
Mrs Gregory gave me a considered sidelong look. ‘She is the runt,’ she told me with candour. ‘One of the bigger dogs might be a more sensible choice.’
‘I know she’s the runt,’ I replied. ‘And it’s her I want,’ I added obdurately.
‘Jolly good,’ retorted Mrs Gregory with practical acceptance. When the transaction was over, the papers exchanged, and we were just setting off with our new puppy on board, Mrs Gregory called out. ‘Mrs Ryan!’
I spun round giggling as our puppy explored her carrier, with scrabbling legs and a wet inquisitive nose. ‘Yes?’
‘You’ve got a good bitch there,’ Mrs Gregory imparted frankly. ‘What she lacks in size, she’ll make up for in other ways.’
So there we are. I tried to express my thanks on the bus ride home. But Henry brushed it off. I tried to apologise. But Henry stopped me with a kiss. ‘You’re a bit fresh, aren’t you? Spots and leopards. Some men never change,’ I said, and Henry gave me a confident smile that would have sat well on the lips of Casanova. And I still find that dashing scar on his cheek
très très
erotic!
We have called her Lola. Today she flushed out a pheasant and went berserk. It flew squawking away, a mass of indignant feathers. I shall have to watch that or the gamekeeper will reprimand me severely, and insist I keep her on a short lead. There is a bitter east wind blowing and the temperature is minus ten degrees. A seasonal helping of fog too, so the grounds looked all dank and eerie. The pussy willow is out and it is so soft and dainty. I don’t know why but it makes me want to smile. It’s like a feather tickling the nose. The moment I set eyes on it my mood lifts, a helium balloon bobbing skywards. This morning I made six jars of marmalade, so I think I can feel justly virtuous. I even
decorated
the labels I stuck on with drawings of oranges and orange blossom. And I cut out gingham hats with my pinking shears.
While Lola is sleeping, I grab the opportunity to write to Childlink. It has been on my mind ever since Merlin died. My life is also passing, and so must my mother’s be. Haste is in order, haste or capitulation, I’m not sure which. I am stranded in purgatory, a crush of yesteryear’s ghosts and today’s demons. I tell Childlink everything. Well, not quite everything because I don’t know everything, not yet. Still, I notice that as I accumulate documents my story is gaining fresh chapters, developing more elaborate layers of plot, more kinks and loops. My tale is expanding. It is metamorphosing from a paragraph into a short story, from a short story into a novella, from a novella into a full-blown novel. Who knows, before I finish I may have an epic on my hands.
As I strike the keys of our antique computer, and it clucks and whirs like a broody hen, I am keenly aware of my upgraded status. Now I am a member of Norcap, officially a seeker of my identity. I tap out my number with satisfaction and then survey it with a smile. I like to think it attaches a certain gravitas to my missive.
I was adopted through the Church Adoption Society, 4a Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1. From the information I received from Norcap, I was delighted to learn that Childlink hold the records of this particular society. Hopefully they will go back to 1948 when I was born
.
I enclose copies of all the documents I have managed to collect so far, then bike into Dorking and post my letter. I check the mail each day and after a week I am rewarded with a reply, a summons. They send me an appointment for Tuesday, 9 March at 2.30 pm. There is a map enclosed with it.
*
I have a near terminal case of the jitters on the train ride to Waterloo. My condition is aggravated when, after this, I am shaken up like a martini on the underground to Clapham Common.
It only takes a few minutes to walk to Childlink’s offices. I am ushered in by a kindly middle-aged woman, who introduces herself as Mrs Belfrage. Her woolly hair, a shade of antique gold, is caught up in a sort of sausage at the back of her neck. She has grey-blue eyes that rest on me inquisitively. Her black shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a lacy lemon camisole. And a dark-blue scarf is draped below her double chin. She invites me to take a seat, and we sit and face each other over an impersonal desk. On the desk is an A4-size envelope. I cannot tear my eyes from it. When Mrs Belfrage gives it to me, my hands are trembling as if I have the palsy.
‘We uncovered quite a lot actually, Mrs Ryan,’ Mrs Belfrage confides with satisfaction. ‘You never can tell with old records. Things get wrongly categorised. Misfiled. Even discarded. It’s a pity, but tragically it occurs.’ She is well spoken and has a self-possessed manner, someone who is used to being listened to and obeyed. ‘What I generally do is leave the client alone for a bit to absorb the information. And then if you like we can talk for a few minutes.’ I thank her and tell her that, yes, I would appreciate some solitude. She rises and walks quietly from the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Things get wrongly categorised, I reflect. They get misfiled. Even discarded. I didn’t have to be told this. I had been discarded. The sleuth in me comes to the fore as I slide the Church Adoption Society’s inquiry sheet from the envelope. The rain that had just started falling when I arrived, tip-taps at the window as if wanting to be let in. I ignore the distraction, and turn my attention to the paper in my hand. Here again is confirmation of the hospital I was delivered in. But to my astonishment, I discover that I have been baptised. Yes, baptised on 6 February 1948, at an address in West End Lane, Hampstead.
Apparently
I am C of E, part of the Church of England flock. It confirms what I gleaned from Cousin Frank’s letters, that my father was a farmhand. But now I have a name. ‘Thorston Engel.’ I speak it aloud and it meets with my approval. ‘Thorston Engel. My daddy.’ But that is all there is contained in this box, no address, no date of birth, no additional information. They do not mention the fact that he was a POW, a prisoner of war. So he is still an enigma.