The door clicked and the archivist, Magda, came in. She wasn’t a social worker but rather someone the council had employed to deal with these requests. Inviting us in for a chat, I felt, did not bode well.
‘Mr and Mrs Cole?’
‘No,’ I said automatically. Puzzled, she looked down at the file in her hands, as if she was in the wrong room. ‘I mean, we’re not married.’
‘Oh.’ I saw her notice how much older I was than him, the subtle double take that I chippily imagined men with younger partners did not get. It didn’t help that Aaron was dressed like a teenager today, in too-loose jeans and a hoody, slouching low in his seat. ‘Well, I have the information you wanted.’
Aaron’s hand groped for mine; his skin was cold. I didn’t know why I felt so sick, as if waiting for test results at a doctor’s. Whatever it was, it was in the past, and couldn’t hurt us. Could it? ‘Your mother was a teenager at the time of your birth – fifteen years old.’ Aaron nodded. I told myself it wasn’t unusual in many parts of the country. ‘Her name was Georgina, Georgina Partington-Smith. She was white.’
Georgina. That didn’t sound like a council-estate name. I revised my assumptions, felt ashamed of them. Magda passed over something, a birth certificate. Aaron snatched it up, poring over the photocopied paper like it was his actual mother’s face. ‘You were taken into care at your family’s request at the age of two.’ She looked up at him. ‘You weren’t adopted subsequently?’
He cleared his throat. ‘No. Fostered a few times.’
‘Your father we don’t know much about, I’m afraid. She didn’t name him on the birth register.’
‘He was . . . black?’ I felt Aaron’s embarrassment at having to ask this, at not even knowing the story of his own life, the stamp of which he carried on his skin. We didn’t even know for sure. His father could have been Asian, or Hispanic, or perhaps some past ancestor on either side had African or Caribbean DNA. We just didn’t know.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.’
‘So . . . where is she now? Georgina?’ Aaron tried out the name.
Magda shook her head. I could feel her anxiety vibrating across the table, and wondered how often people exploded at her, in tears or in rage. ‘I’m afraid I don’t . . . have that information.’ It seemed to be a set phrase. ‘If the birth parent has agreed to contact in advance, we sometimes have their details on the system and can pass them on. But in this case we don’t have anything. The care order was closed.’
‘Meaning?’ I spoke this time, seeing that Aaron was overwhelmed by the information, or rather the lack of it, that she’d given him.
‘The family did not request ongoing contact.’ She said it crisply, but she meant that his mother had not wanted to stay in touch with him. That unlike most children in care, he hadn’t been wrested from her because she couldn’t take care of him. He had been given up, because for whatever reason she didn’t want him. I squeezed his hand again. It felt limp in mine; he tugged it away.
‘So how do we find her?’ Me again. I tried to smile at him, to reinforce the ‘we’, but he was staring at the dingy grey carpet.
‘People sometimes hire private detectives to track relatives down. Of course, they may not want to be contacted. Psychologically this can be quite tough, can feel like a second rejection. Are you sure you want to do it?’
Aaron said nothing. It was down to me, the decision, because I would have to pay for it. I thought through the different possible outcomes. I imagined Aaron finding this woman, who would be my age or a little older, assuming she was still alive, and her still not wanting him, as she hadn’t when she was a teenager. I thought of myself at that age, shepherded from school to ballet to clarinet to netball, never even speaking to a boy, let alone kissing one, and wondered how it would be to have a baby when you were still a child yourself. Could I blame her, for giving Aaron up? My own baby kicked me, as if to remind me how hard that must have been. I tried to feel pity for her, this unknown woman. Maybe she’d married, had more children. Maybe no one knew about her first pregnancy. If we came to find her, would we upend her life, ruin her peace?
I reached for his hand again, forced him to give it to me. ‘We’re sure,’ I said, looking nervy Magda directly in the face, casting the die, starting something I could not predict the ending of.
It’s funny how your peace of mind can vanish overnight, like a storm whipping up on a cloudless day, and tearing the sky to shreds. The messages had unsettled me, the mistake with the mailing, my virtual suspension from work, even if we weren’t calling it that. Aaron’s quest to find his mother had rattled me too. Sleep had already been elusive, what with the equivalent of three hot-water bottles strapped to me and kicking me from the inside, but it got even worse now. Three nights in a row I watched as dawn lightened the window, the cheeping of morning birds an irritating reminder that I hadn’t slept and that Aaron would be up in two hours, making enough noise to wake an army. I lay and listened to the drone of planes overhead and thought about my life, the decisions I’d made, good and bad, that had led me here. Claudia Jarvis had dropped off the face of the earth. If it wasn’t her who sent those messages, who else might have it in for me? The only other person I could think of was my ex, Chris.
I hadn’t spoken to Chris in ten years, since I left him in . . . let’s say less-than-ideal circumstances. I idly stalked his Facebook feed from time to time, of course, and sometimes I wondered irrationally if he was posting things for my benefit, to show me what an amazing life he had. He’d married someone else within a year of me leaving him, at dizzying speed, and they had two little girls. With great trepidation, I clicked on the message box and started to draft one. Hi! Long time no talk huh. I got a slightly weird message the other day, couldn’t tell who the sender was. Don’t suppose you know anything about that? I’m asking everyone I can think of!
Which was a lie. I pressed send, a pocket of cold deep in my stomach telling me I was making a mistake. What would Aaron say, for a start, at me randomly contacting my ex? I wouldn’t say he was jealous, not exactly, but he was sensitive to my feelings for him, on days when I felt bored or irritated, as happens in every relationship. It wasn’t surprising, given how little attachment he’d had from anyone in his childhood. Telling him what was going on would only upset him. I wondered why I felt so protective of him and didn’t want to examine that thought further. He was my partner, not my child, but I worried about him, what instability lay just beneath, stirred up by all this business with his mother.
Chris replied later that day. This is a surprise! I don’t know anything about that, no.
I wrote back. OK. Just wracking my brains really.
He was typing something – the moving dots gave me a jolt. Chris, a ghost from my past, was on the other end. So easy just to reach out and bring him back into my life. Too easy, maybe. Perhaps I can help. Do you want to have lunch or something?
My heart began to race. Lunch?
Yeah. Be nice to catch up.
I thought about it. What good could come of seeing my ex, a man I had badly hurt? A man I had rejected? Why did I need this, when I was close to having another man’s child? But all the same I was bored and restless and worried, and enforced maternity leave wasn’t helping matters. And Aaron would scarcely talk to me ever since we’d got the news about his birth mother, keeping it all inside, festering. As I typed in, Sure, I’m pretty free right now, I already knew I wouldn’t be telling him about Chris.
The next day I went into London to meet him. He still worked at the same management consultancy firm near London Bridge, ten years on. Taking the train at that time was strange, empty and quiet, not having to fight my way on or stand pointedly beside people until they gave me a seat, which didn’t always happen, even at eight months pregnant. I watched the train pass Canary Wharf, the skyscrapers tearing a white sky, and thought of the years I’d lived with Chris there, near Crossharbour, in a flat he paid for as easily as a pack of tissues. Not lik
e Aaron.
It hadn’t occurred to me that Chris didn’t know I was pregnant. But why would he? He didn’t stalk my Facebook feed as assiduously as I did his, in all likelihood, and that made me feel tired and ashamed. In any case I hadn’t posted much about my pregnancy, cautious of being too vulnerable. When I walked into the chain restaurant (a classically boring Chris choice), I saw his face change. What was the expression? Shock? A little chagrin? ‘Wow! I had no idea.’
‘Oh, yes, almost due now.’ I hugged him awkwardly. He had lost weight but aged, his face lined, his hair grey. He wore a nondescript but expensive suit and tie, and he looked like any City worker, a well-paid cog in a wheel. I saw he wore a signet ring on a little finger, something I would have mocked him for, back when his body was mine to touch and comment on. Back when he was part of my life. It was so strange how little I knew him now, this man who had once meant so much to me.
‘I didn’t even know you’d got married.’
Was that a dig? I sat down, with difficulty. ‘Probably because I didn’t.’
‘Oh?’ His head cocked, as if seeing a chance to win the break-up. ‘Still not your thing then?’
‘It wasn’t . . . not my thing, exactly.’
‘Just not with me.’ He laughed. ‘Hence why you left me at the altar!’
‘It wasn’t at the altar, Chris.’
‘As good as. A month before. Cost the same.’
‘I know. It was a very difficult choice, and I was very sorry to hurt you, but looks like you’re really happy now?’
He softened. ‘I was lucky to meet Alicia, yes. She values home-making, family – makes it a lot easier for me to do what I do.’
I surmised from this that Alicia was the stay-at-home-in-the-suburbs wife he’d wanted, one of the many reasons I’d cut my losses and run from my expensive wedding, at the age of twenty-eight. My mother had almost died of rage and shame. You really think you’ll meet someone else, at your age? That’s it for you, Jacqueline. You’ll never have children. I’ll never be a grandmother now. At least I had proven her wrong about that. ‘And two kids! You’ve been busy.’
He got out his phone and showed me two insipid blonde children, in matching pink striped dresses. I had in fact already seen the picture on his Facebook, but didn’t say so. ‘Iris and Emily.’
Sounded like two great-aunts in a nursing home. ‘Lovely.’
‘And you – what does, eh, your partner do?’ The most important question for a man like Chris. What does he do? I tried to think how to answer this. ‘At the moment he’s working in insurance.’ I was ashamed of myself for that, making Aaron’s job sound better than it was.
‘Oh yes? I do a lot of business with insurers, which one?’
‘Er . . . Dependent.’ Technically that was true, but he just worked in a regional branch of it, doing admin.
‘I wonder if he knows Colin Richards? I could put some business his way, perhaps.’
‘Um . . . I don’t know. He’s just started.’ I looked down at my menu. Nothing on it appealed to me, since I couldn’t eat shellfish or soft cheese or rare meat. ‘And Alicia?’
‘Oh, she’s at home with the girls. Wouldn’t have it any other way.’ The pride in his voice made something crack in me. I hadn’t wanted this life, a rich husband out at work twelve hours a day, while I wrangled kids in the countryside and had to ask him for the cash to buy groceries. But had I wanted the opposite? Being entirely responsible for our family’s finances, lying awake worrying about money? And not just money, but our emotional even keel? Keeping the boat of our family afloat?
‘Shall we order?’ I changed the subject, opting for some dispiriting pasta that cost ten pounds. Aaron and I rarely ate out, because when he saw the prices, even in chain places, he went quiet and anxious and it ruined my enjoyment. Our second date had been at a Nando’s.
Chris had the steak very rare, in a manly gesture, and told me at great length about the low-carb diet he was on, the secret of his weight loss. I wondered how I had ever shared my life with this man, had sex with him, come within a month of being his wife. In the end, I hadn’t wanted to be anyone’s wife. That was what swung it. I told myself I still didn’t. So why had the comment about me being married stung me so?
We traded small talk for a while – his job, mine, neither of us really listening but just saying things politely in order – and when the food arrived, my pasta already cold, I said, ‘So you really can’t think of anyone who’d send a weird message about me? It was sort of . . . nasty. I’m really wracking my brains.’ I couldn’t bear to tell him what it actually said.
He chewed his steak, showing red blood and flesh between his teeth. My stomach turned over. ‘I was thinking. What about that man? You know the one. What was his name – Jarvis?’
I winced. Chris was one of the few people I’d told about the whole business, since I’d met him not long after. In fact, I doubted I ever would have got together with Chris if I hadn’t been so broken by everything that happened. ‘I thought of that. But . . . he’s not around, is he? He’d hardly be able to get online.’
Casually, as if he had no idea of the bomb he was throwing into my world, Chris said, ‘Oh, but he’s out now. I was talking to a former partner of his the other day at golf. He got out in March.’
I set down my fork. Chris frowned. ‘You OK? You didn’t know?’
I hadn’t known. Of course. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It had been years, of course he was out by now. ‘Excuse me, Chris,’ I said, and I waddled as fast as I could to the ladies. Don’t puke don’t puke. Before pregnancy I’d had a strong stomach. I was rarely sick, even after slamming tequilas all night. I stood there in the cubicle, the floor littered with tissues and damp footprints, and I breathed as hard as I could until I knew I wouldn’t throw up. Mark Jarvis was out of prison, and no one had told me. He was free and out, and fully aware that it was me who’d ruined his life. Oh my God.
When I got home, Aaron was already there. I glanced at the wall clock we’d bought in Dunelm, a cheap fake-brass one. It was later than I’d thought. Everything moved so slowly, at this stage of pregnancy. ‘Where were you?’ he said. Glancing into the kitchen, I saw he’d made a stab at dinner, pasta and a bought jar of sauce. The last thing I wanted was more pasta, but this to Aaron was as advanced as cooking got.
‘I went into town. I was going out of my mind stuck here. Thought I’d look at some baby stuff.’
‘You didn’t buy anything?’ I had no bags with me, true.
‘I can’t carry them. I’ll buy online.’ I moved past him. I didn’t want to tell him I’d seen Chris, because I couldn’t bear any hassle right now, but if he asked, I wasn’t going to lie. I wouldn’t be that person.
‘Babe . . . are you alright?’ I turned, and he was looking at me with care in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so in my head. This adoption stuff . . . it’s really getting to me.’
I stood with my hand on the banisters. ‘I know. But you have to try and talk to me about it, OK?’
He nodded. ‘And you. You have to talk to me as well.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said it too snappily.
‘Just . . . why’ve you suddenly taken off work? You said you wanted to go till the end, and then you said you just wanted a rest, but you go into town right away?’
‘I didn’t realise you were checking up on me.’ That wasn’t fair.
‘I wasn’t,’ he said mildly. ‘I just want to help. Let me help, babe?’
But how could he help? I couldn’t bear to tell him any of this, see his opinion of me change, maybe bring my mother’s predictions true, send him out the door. If anyone needed help it was him. ‘Alright. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t forget we have baby group tomorrow.’
‘I know. I’m going to lie down now though, I’m exhausted.’
‘I made dinner.’
‘Thanks. I’ll have some later, maybe.’ I hefted myself up the stairs, and could feel his worr
ied gaze on me, but I didn’t turn around.
Alison
Going back to the station at the end of the day, Alison became the victim of a drive-by bollocking, finding her boss, Colette Milton, standing by the blind-shrouded window of her office. She beckoned to Alison, who, with a sinking heart, went in. Colette was in her early fifties, had come up during the sexism-and-cigarettes years of the force and triumphed, a high-heeled foot on the necks of her red-faced, over-lunched male contemporaries. She wore a silk blouse and suit skirt, a rope of pearls round her neck, all the better to throttle you with.
Colette rarely bothered with small talk. ‘Alison. I’ve had a complaint from one of these barbecue women.’
Surprise, surprise. ‘Which one?’
‘The house owner – Monica Dunwood.’
Again, surprise, surprise. ‘We followed regs.’
‘She’s a tricky one – the kind who can dig up a long-lost uncle on the police complaints commission. Says officers have been tramping all over her house, leaving it a mess. Try to smooth her over.’
‘Someone died there, ma’am. Forensics had to get in.’ Typically, they did not clean up crime scenes. Even if your nearest and dearest had bled to death in your living room, it was up to you to deal with it.
‘Yes, yes. See if you can spare some uniform to go and brush the floor, make her a cup of tea.’
‘She’s a suspect in—’
‘In what, Alison? Because from all I’ve seen it was an accident, a fall. Since when do we devote days of police time to accidents?’
Only one day so far, but Alison didn’t say that. ‘I think there’s more to it.’
‘Based on . . . ? I’ve seen the autopsy report. There’s nothing to suggest foul play. A slip, a fall, happens all the time, especially when there’s booze involved. You know that.’
‘I just . . . think that’s not the full story. Please, can I have a few more days to look into it? I haven’t even interviewed all the witnesses yet, not properly.’
The Push Page 8
