by Tina Seskis
‘Yes, sometimes, I suppose,’ said Juliette. She seemed in a more reflective mood than usual, happy to talk about it for a change. ‘It’s just very weird, knowing that there’s someone out there who gave birth to me and then …’ She stopped.
Renée couldn’t help herself. ‘Have you thought any more about tracking her down?’
‘Oh, no, what would my mum and dad say? I’m sure they’d think of it as some kind of betrayal.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ said Renée. She thought again of her own mother then, who’d done the same thing in effect, had relinquished her too, although it had taken her a few more years to do it. Maybe that’s why she and Juliette were so close – they both had ‘abandonment issues’, and it was weird how that had never occurred to her before. They were similar in so many ways, it was uncanny.
‘What do you think she looks like?’
‘How would I know?’ said Juliette, but she didn’t say it crossly as such, more as a matter of fact, which Renée took as encouragement.
‘She must have been beautiful,’ she said. ‘Look at that hair she’s given you.’
‘Shush,’ said Juliette. ‘I hate my hair.’ And she did, although she had tumbling corkscrew curls the colour of ginger biscuits that people always stared at, because combined with her dark lashes and deep-green eyes she was just so unimaginably stunning.
‘Maybe she was a film star,’ Renée continued. ‘Maybe she was Chantelle Dauphin, she’s about the right age. Yes, you look just like her. Maybe she was over here filming when you were conceived, and then she thought she’d have you adopted by an English couple.’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Juliette, and although she tried to smile Renée knew she’d gone too far now. She shifted a little on the narrow bed, away from Juliette’s foot, which had been poking her in the ribs, and as her head hit the wall the pain was concrete, unpleasant.
‘Why don’t you at least think about it, Juliette,’ she said gently. ‘I’m sure it would do you some good – maybe it’s the not knowing that upsets you …’ Juliette didn’t answer, but Renée saw a spark of acknowledgement in her friend’s eyes. ‘And I’d be happy to help you if you liked – it’d be far easier than doing it on your own.’
‘I don’t know, Renée, I’ll have to consider it,’ said Juliette. ‘And even if I did do it – which I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I won’t by the way! – even then I’d only do so if you agreed to us going to Paris next summer.’ She paused, and her own tone became softer. ‘Surely it would be good for you to see her, Renée, she is your mother after all.’ Renée almost recoiled from the word. ‘And … and we could go shopping,’ Juliette continued, flustered. ‘Drink cafés au lait, hang out in the Louvre, chatting up French boys – just so we could practise our French, of course. It would be amazing.’
Renée’s face hardened under her bleach-tinged fringe, which Juliette secretly thought looked odd against the black of the rest of her hair. She’d preferred it when it was all one colour.
‘We’ll see,’ said Renée. ‘But I’ve told you what she’s like – even if she did offer to put us up she’d probably charge us for breakfast.’
‘Well, please will you think about it?’ said Juliette. ‘We wanted to go inter-railing anyway, it would be mad not to start in Paris, and it might even go better with your mother than you think.’
‘I don’t know about that – you haven’t met my mother,’ said Renée, and her tone wasn’t quite as jokey as she intended.
‘I haven’t even met my own,’ her friend replied, and Renée wasn’t sure how to respond to that, Juliette had seemed so vulnerable before – but then Juliette started to giggle, and as she did so she slopped her tea onto the duvet and kicked her feet in mock-rage, sending Renée sprawling off the single bed, onto the blue-striped nylon carpet.
38
Balham, South West London
Nestled in an otherwise smart residential street and emerging from the darkness like a shipwreck, Sissy’s house was most definitely letting the side down in this corner of the capital. Weeds grew through the paved-over front garden, the recycling bins were stacked untidily in full view of the street, and the single ornamental rose bush that had been planted by the previous owners was sprouting two unsightly runners that would have taken less than thirty seconds to remove with a decent pair of secateurs (as Charlotte next door had been tempted to do many times, if Sissy wouldn’t ever be bothered, but her husband had just about managed to restrain her). Balham, previously the dull poor relation of Clapham, had recently acquired such a level of chi chi-ness that Sissy felt like she didn’t really belong there any more, with her scruffy house and clapped-out car and charity-shop wardrobe. She’d tried to placate herself that looking after two children on her own and trying to do up the inside on a shoestring (even with Siobhan’s help, which although well-meaning was sometimes a little disruptive) was all she could manage right now. Anything beyond the front door would have to wait for the moment.
This particular day was destined to be as glorious as the previous one, meteorologically at least, but Sissy didn’t notice. She sat numbly in her kitchen, staring blankly out to the back garden, which was worse than the front if anything: the grass knee-high on the children (it grew so fast at this time of the year, how could she possibly keep up), the borders jungly, the swing wonky and rusting. Nell and Conor were still asleep, thank goodness, but there again it was only seven minutes past five. Sissy hadn’t been able to bear lying in bed for a single second longer and so she’d got up, made herself a camomile tea, put on Classic FM – tried as best she could to calm her nerves. The clock hands dragged themselves around, and it was unbearable. What time could she try ringing her? Six? Six-thirty? She thought of the picnic last night, of the row they’d all had, of the accusations that had been flung around like confetti, of how her friend had run off in hysterics and everyone had let her go. Sissy couldn’t believe now that she’d just walked away too, had left her there alone, in that state. It was no excuse that she’d been drinking herself, what kind of friend was she? It was a terrible enough thing to do in its own right, and that was without Sissy having heard the splash. What could have caused it? It must have been a bird, surely her friends had been right. Sissy kept thinking of all the birds it could have been – a goose perhaps? A seagull? They were big, would make quite a splash – and they came up the Thames as far as London, didn’t they? She tried to convince herself that everything would be fine, that once it was a decent enough hour to ring, her friend would answer – resentful, definitely, hungover, certainly – but alive. Yes, six o’clock, that’s as long as Sissy could wait, that’s when she would call, and too bad if she did wake her up.
39
Bristol
Juliette abandoned her essay and scrabbled in the bin for the leaflet Renée had left in her room, feeling like she was cheating on her parents, even unscrunching it. She found she couldn’t help herself though – Renée had seemed to unleash in her the desire for knowledge at least, if not reconciliation. Who was she? Where had she been born? What name had she been given? Who was her real mother? What did she look like? Who was her father? Had her parents loved each other once? WHY had her mother given her up? It was very strange, almost like now the questions had been asked, they wouldn’t go away, couldn’t be un-asked, although she didn’t dare tell Renée that of course – before she knew it Renée would be rushing her off to find out, given half a chance.
Juliette looked again at the leaflet. She needed her place of birth, her adoptive parents’ names, some proof of ID and five pounds in cash. That was it, to make a start at least. That was all it took. There was only one problem: Juliette didn’t actually know where she’d been born, had never even asked her parents, which was odd now she came to think of it. Why hadn’t she asked? Had the subject just been completely off-limits, or had she simply not been interested? Or maybe she’d asked when she was younger and been brushed off, so had given up. It was weird. It seemed even
odder now, to ring up her mother and ask about the weather and her jam-making and the Women’s Institute, and, ‘Oh, and by the way, Mum, where did you get me from?’ Argh, why had Renée ever stirred this up? Usually Juliette tried not to think about any of this much, and frankly she didn’t have the head space for it at the moment – they had their end-of-term assignments due in soon, plus Stephen was taking up so much of her time these days, monopolising her in truth.
Juliette got up from her desk and walked over to the window and gazed out across the roof-tops. She couldn’t believe that she lived here in the best part of this wonderful city, with such brilliant new friends, a doting boyfriend, doing a course that she loved; she really should be fantastically happy. But instead she felt a growing sense of detachment, depression even, and she was vaguely aware that the space she had here, away from her family, had given her the freedom to question who she really was. She moved across to the mirror next to the bed. Where had she got these extraordinary curls from? What if it turned out her birth mother really was a film star? She looked at her nose sideways in the mirror. It did have a conk to it, exactly like Ms Dauphin’s. Don’t be so ridiculous, she told herself, it’s just Renée putting ideas into your head. She thought again of Somerset House, of how London was only an hour and a half away by train, of how she and Renée were planning a trip there anyway to stay with Renée’s aunt for the weekend. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask Mum, she thought. It’s such a simple little question, surely she wouldn’t mind. She could pretend it was to do with her course, having to research her birthplace or something, she didn’t want to upset her mother unnecessarily. Yes, that’s what she’d do, next time she rang.
‘Hello, darling, how lovely to hear from you! I thought you weren’t going to call until Saturday.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Juliette. ‘But I was walking past the phones on campus and they were empty for a change, so I thought I’d just give you a quick ring to see how you and Dad got on on your gardening trip.’ (This was a rare lie, she’d been queuing for over forty minutes at exactly the same spot where a couple of months earlier she’d been befriended by a solid-looking rugby type, Stephen he’d said his name was, who she now seemed to be going out with, although she wasn’t quite sure how that had happened.)
‘Oh, you’re such a sweetheart,’ continued her mother. ‘Yes, Wisley was super, thanks. It was terribly cold, but I’d made a Thermos of homemade soup, leek and potato, the cafes are so expensive in those places, and that kept the chill out.’
‘Great,’ said Juliette. ‘And how’s McGee?’
‘Oh, he’s fine, darling. He’s eating at last, thank goodness, and he’s taken to chewing your father’s slippers again, so he must be on the mend. Anyway, how are you? How’s your course going?’
‘Oh, it’s good, Mum,’ said Juliette. She paused, she couldn’t think what to say.
‘Juliette, are you all right?’ said her mother. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘No, nothing, Mum, honestly.’ The phone started beeping: her phone card was about to run out. She had to be quick. ‘Mum, we’re doing a project as part of Psychology.’ She stopped again.
‘Ye – es,’ replied her mother, aware now that something was definitely up. Surely Juliette wasn’t homesick, she’d seemed so happy when they’d spoken the other day.
‘Well, we’re meant to research the town where we’re from, where we were born, I mean, and … and, well, I … Mummy, I don’t know where I’m from.’
‘Oh,’ said her mother, and her voice changed, still warm but wary now. ‘What are you asking, Juliette, dear?’
The phone beeped again. Juliette spoke urgently.
‘Mum, where was I born? Can you tell me?’
Her mother replied and then the phone cut out and between the beeps Juliette wasn’t sure whether her mother had said Acton or Clacton.
40
Barnes
It was Friday morning, five to eight, and Natasha had been back from her run for well over ten minutes. She was standing in her kitchen now, fuming, absolutely bloody furious with everyone, but she was dimly aware that that was easier than being angry with herself. Every time she rang it, Juliette’s mobile went straight to voicemail, and no-one was picking up the home phone either, although Natasha knew Juliette should be there, it was still too early for the school run. Surely one of her many domestic staff would be there by now, why weren’t they picking up either?
Natasha let Juliette’s home phone ring for the umpteenth time – it didn’t seem to go to answerphone, instead just kept ringing and ringing until finally a loud, continuous parp-parp would signal that even BT had had enough of waiting, and then Natasha would call it again, dogged as ever. She debated whether to simply get in the car and go round to Juliette’s – find out where she was, what was going on, so that everyone could get their story straight if something terrible had happened – but the traffic would be awful and she needed to be at work on time today, she had a board meeting to prepare for. As Natasha stood staring at her mobile, ready to hurl it across the room in frustration, another idea came to her. Perhaps she should steer clear of everyone for the time being, it might make things worse. Hopefully she was just catastrophising anyway, but if there was still no news after the weekend she could always go to the police then. She hadn’t done anything wrong after all, not really, and then if anything terrible had happened to her friend – whose mobile still went straight to voicemail (that’s because it’s waterlogged, at the bottom of The Serpentine, said a little voice she tried to ignore) – she, Natasha, would be in the clear. Natasha flinched, both from guilt at even thinking such a thing, and from a noise she’d just heard in the hallway. The kids were still upstairs with the nanny, and the cleaner hadn’t arrived yet. Alistair. Christ, she could do without seeing him this morning – she’d snuck out of bed while he was still pretending to be asleep, his back to her, hostile as ever. Anyone would think it was she who’d had the affair, and the thought made her sad about her marriage for a second – until she remembered to be mad with him all over again. The sounds faded, thank God: he must have heard her too. She knew she needed to confront him soon though – they couldn’t carry on like this, it wasn’t good for the children. The kettle finished boiling and Natasha made a strong instant coffee, no milk, three sugars, and when she drank it she wished desperately that she had a cigarette to go with it, although she hadn’t smoked in years. The coffee was too hot without milk and it burned her mouth, and the sensation, that her tongue was rough and sanded, stayed with her for the rest of that terrible day, like an imprint of wrongdoing.
41
The Bristol to London train
The 17:35 service was crowded with a mixture of people – commuters, day-trippers, students – and the carriages had been incorrectly labelled, so everyone was sitting in the wrong seats and passengers were having to stand up again although they’d already got settled in for the journey, resulting in much clutching of disrobed coats and scarves and hats to chests, and inelegant struggles with Walkmans and glasses and books and already unfolded newspapers, as people tried not to but inevitably dropped things. Although it was freezing outside, the train itself was hot and airless, almost feverish in its atmosphere – it was Friday evening and people were in that specifically jolly mood of work being over for a while, and what with the carriage mix-up strangers were being forced to interact more than they usually would, rolling their eyes at each other good-naturedly, saying things like, ‘Bloody British Rail’, and even offering to swap seats in an abnormally magnanimous fashion.
Renée and Juliette were sat crammed in by the door next to the buffet car, which kept opening and closing, giving rise to the occasional whiff of toilets, and Juliette found her mind was racing, absolutely bloody motoring, faster than the train even. She sat pondering all sorts of important issues: wondering what mark she’d get for her Economics assignment, it had been so rushed in the end; trying to picture what kind of train designer would put the toilets righ
t next to the food, surely that was unhygienic; questioning who had chosen the vile green pattern for the seat covers, was it the same person, or would that be someone else’s job; noticing that Renée seemed to have put on a little weight lately, was looking fuller around the face, or maybe it was just the effect of her new orange fringe; observing that the guard in the buffet car had that faraway look in his eyes, as though he were on a journey somewhere, which of course he was, and what must it be like to trundle from one side of the country to the other serving coffee and sausage rolls as your job; and what was his accent, it was so distinctive but she couldn’t place it, where did he actually live, east or west, or maybe in-between, Swindon perhaps. Juliette thought of absolutely anything she could, anything that might stop her looking at every passenger who passed by her seat and thinking, ‘That could be my mother’ or ‘Maybe that’s my brother’ and she wondered again what was going on inside her head these days. Why were all these questions and fanciful theories surfacing now? Was it just that twenty years of self-denial had dammed up, like water reaching a frozen waterfall, unable to go anywhere, and now the sun had come out and the waters had started to melt, just a little, until the onwards force had become inexorable and the water had started fully flowing again, down into the icy river, waking her up from herself. Don’t be so bloody pretentious, she thought. All she planned on for now was having a look – and even if she found it, which was unlikely anyway, just a little peep at a birth certificate wouldn’t make much difference, surely? And even if she did find that she wanted to carry on further in her search she’d wait, for months or years even, until she’d worked out how to talk to her parents, made sure they were all right about it. No, there was no harm in just having a look. And besides, surely she’d need to know one day – if she was ever planning on having children of her own she’d want to find out if there were any genetic issues beforehand. The thought made her feel faintly queasy. She didn’t think she’d be cut out for motherhood somehow, she’d always found little children hard to relate to, alien almost.
