by Rosanna Ley
‘Who are you?’ she’d asked him. ‘And how do you know my name?’ What was he – some sort of stalker?
‘I saw you playing at the Jazz Café,’ he said. And, ‘I didn’t know I was bidding against someone I knew in there.’
What was that supposed to mean? He didn’t know her and she certainly didn’t know him. She frowned.
‘Or knew of,’ he added. ‘Know of?’ He seemed a bit desperate now. ‘Seen around?’
‘You don’t.’ Her tone was crisp. ‘You haven’t.’ She was not amused. ‘You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.’ She pushed herself off with some difficulty and prayed she wouldn’t fall. ‘End of.’ That would tell him.
‘So you’re staying here in Dorset?’ Frances asked her.
‘Yes.’ Ruby shrugged. ‘At least for a while.’ For the moment they were on safe ground. She glanced across at Frances. How long before they stopped skirting round the difficult stuff and got down to the nitty-gritty?
Frances seemed to know what she was thinking. ‘Shall we order before we talk?’ she suggested.
Ruby nodded. In some ways, Frances was the closest she now had to family. She didn’t really count the grandparents in Scotland who she hardly knew and who had barely acknowledged her at the funeral. At least Frances had been a constant presence during her childhood. But Ruby had yet to become accustomed to the new, true meaning of ‘only child’. There was no one left. She repressed a sigh. Even her memories were at risk of irreparable damage – after tonight.
She chose fresh whole local plaice with salad and new potatoes; Frances opted for sea bass, vegetables and chips. They decided to share a bottle of Soave.
‘You’d better tell me everything that’s happened, my dear,’ Frances said. ‘And then I’ll do what I can to fill in the gaps.’
Ruby took a deep breath and out it came. The photographs in the shoebox, the baby’s bonnet and love beads, the guitar plectrum. The doctor’s letter about her parents’ infertility, the lack of early baby photos in the album, the fact that she looked nothing like either of them. And her confused grandmother’s ‘bolt from the blue’.
Frances nodded. ‘I see.’
By now their food had arrived, but neither of them was eating much. Ruby was pushing her fish around her plate – at least it gave her something to do. Frances was looking grave. Her gaze kept drifting beyond Ruby as if she was seeing her friend Vivien throwing back her head and laughing in that way she had or frowning as she stood a distance away to look at one of her watercolours.
‘And then I took a proper look at my birth certificate,’ Ruby said.
‘Ah.’ Frances nodded. And was it Ruby’s imagination or did she see a faint blush on her cheeks?
‘The registration of my birth appears to have been delayed,’ Ruby said. ‘For some reason.’
‘Yes, it was.’ Frances looked thoughtful.
For a few moments they were both silent.
Ruby smoothed some white fish from the bone and took a mouthful. She’d kept her part of the bargain and now it was time for Frances to come clean. Why was she hesitating? Had she promised to keep her mother’s secret?
Ruby swallowed. ‘Mum would want you to tell me the whole story,’ she said. Family secrets were all very well, but didn’t everyone have the right to the truth surrounding their own birth?
‘Oh, I know she would,’ Frances agreed. ‘She wouldn’t want you to be floundering around in the dark. She told me so herself.’
‘Then … ’ Ruby took another deep breath. ‘Is she my mother?’ she asked. ‘My birth mother, I mean.’
Frances took a sip of her wine. ‘Your mother – and your father for that matter – did what they did for your own good, my dear,’ she said. ‘They may have done wrong. But they only ever had your best interests at heart.’
She’d have to see about that, Ruby thought. But what did they do exactly? ‘You’d better just tell me,’ she said.
‘Vivien was a good woman.’ Once again, Frances’s gaze became distant.
But that was the past. This was the present and Ruby wanted some answers.
‘She loved you more than the world,’ said Frances. ‘Whatever I tell you, you have to understand that. No one could have loved you more.’
Ruby could feel her eyes filling yet again. Damn tears – they were round every corner. And that was all very well. ‘But she’s not my mother? Is that it?’ Ruby took a gulp of wine. ‘Come on, Frances. Spit it out.’
Frances sighed. ‘No, you’re not Tom and Vivien’s daughter,’ she said. ‘Not biologically, at least.’
CHAPTER 13
Dorset, April 1978
The knock on the door was a quiet one. But Vivien heard it.
With the faintest of sighs, she put down her paintbrush and got to her feet. There was never enough time to work on her painting and when Tom went out it didn’t take her long to grab her materials and the opportunity. She adored him. But. Time alone … Sometimes it seemed an almost forbidden luxury. She opened the door.
For a moment she didn’t recognise the girl standing there. It was beginning to rain – big, fat drops splattering on to the dry stone path. Tom had been planting some marigolds (to keep away the slugs, he said) and they were squatting in the border like trainee soldiers determined not to step out of line. Then she realised. ‘Laura?’
Well, she hadn’t seen her for quite a while. But her mother … Oh, my heavens. ‘Laura.’ Her voice was softer now. She had known this would happen. But still, it had taken her by surprise. Vivien put out a hand and drew the girl gently inside.
Laura Woods blinked. ‘Hello, Vivien,’ she said.
She was wearing a long cheesecloth skirt decorated with red roses and an embroidered smock top. She’d lost a lot of weight since Vivien had seen her last and her blonde hair was long and straggly. In her hands she dangled a tatty wicker basket and over her shoulder hung a brightly coloured fabric bag.
‘Come in,’ Vivien said, though she already was. It was more something to say, Vivien knew that. Instead of what she must say. ‘I’m so sorry, Laura.’
The girl nodded, didn’t look up. She seemed kind of vague and not quite with it. Which was hardly surprising. How must it feel to lose your mother at – how old was she? – only twenty?
Laura shivered. ‘I came back as soon as I heard,’ she said at last, as though Vivien had accused her of something.
‘Of course.’ Vivien nodded. Although she had been angry with her before for not keeping in touch with her mother, she did understand what Laura must have been through when her parents’ marriage broke up. Going off like that so soon after the divorce, disappearing from her parents’ radar so completely had seemed, even at the time, an act of rebellion. Perhaps she’d found it hard to forgive her parents for splitting up, perhaps she wanted to assert her own independence, perhaps she simply needed to get away from the mess at home. Whatever the reason, Laura had gone – and she’d rarely looked back.
‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ Laura’s eyes were wide, blue and accusing.
‘Tell you?’
‘That she was ill. That she was dying.’
Vivien had guessed this would happen too. ‘She was trying to be brave, Laura,’ she said. Though privately she agreed with the girl. Of course she should have been told. Poor Laura. Her heart went out to her.
‘Brave!’ Laura shook her head as if she couldn’t believe it.
Vivien could only imagine what she was feeling. Pearl might have had the best of intentions but not to tell your own daughter that you didn’t have long to live simply wasn’t fair. In her determination not to make Laura obligated to come back and see her, Pearl had denied her daughter the right to say goodbye.
‘Where were you?’ Vivien led the way into the sitting room. Automatically she put her paintbrush in the jar of water as she passed the table. When you heard the news, she meant.
‘Spain.’
‘Oh.’ Not that it made any difference. Vivien gestured towards t
he sofa and Laura perched on the edge, as if she might want to make a quick getaway. Her wrists were bony, her brown fingers constantly fiddling with a thread from the blanket in the basket she’d placed on the sofa beside her. Her face was brown too. She looked so different. Weather-beaten at twenty, Vivien thought.
‘I had to get the money together to come back,’ Laura said. ‘It wasn’t easy.’
‘Didn’t your father—’
‘No.’ Laura cut her off. Her face hardened. ‘I don’t want a penny from him.’
Vivien nodded. She could understand that too. ‘Let me make you some tea,’ she offered. Although she looked as if she could do with something stronger.
‘Thanks.’
In the kitchen, Vivien took stock. Pearl had lost her battle with cancer a few months earlier. She had spent her final two months in a hospice. Vivien had visited her every day and watched her fading away before her very eyes. It had been agonising.
And now Laura had come home …
‘Do you take sugar?’ she called. What could she say to her? How could she help her cope with the loss of her mother?
‘One, please.’
From the other room, Vivien heard a snuffling sound. Oh, God, she was crying. She had come back to a country that must seem so alien to her, to a motherless house that was no longer a home. And now …
Vivien hurried back in with the tea tray. Perhaps she should suggest that Laura stay with them for a while. She shouldn’t be alone. She needed time in which to adjust to life back in England, time in which to come to terms with her mother’s death – somehow. Was she very short of money? Did her father even know she was back? She’d need a job. She—
‘Laura?’ Vivien stopped in her tracks.
‘Mmm?’
Laura wasn’t crying. Laura was holding a baby and the baby was crying – or beginning to. It – he/she? – was still half wrapped in the blanket and sling that Vivien now realised had been bundled up in the basket Laura was carrying. And the baby was nuzzling into Laura’s neck, whimpering.
Vivien put the tray down before she dropped it. ‘You’ve had a baby,’ she said, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘Yeah.’ Laura looked as if she hadn’t yet become used to the idea herself.
‘When?’
Laura glanced at the baby in her arms. ‘A couple of months ago,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘You can’t remember?’ Vivien digested this information as she got closer to the sofa. The little one was still waking up. It was one of the prettiest babies Vivien had ever seen.
Laura shrugged as if it was all a bit of a blur.
‘A girl?’ She was wearing a pink Babygro and a white cardy.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Did your mother know?’ Vivien realised her breathing had become shallow. She gulped in some air. Pearl had been a grandmother …
Laura shook her head.
Dear God. She hadn’t known. Of course she hadn’t. This baby must have been born only a week or so after her death. ‘You poor, poor girl,’ she said with feeling.
‘She’s hungry,’ Laura said. ‘I need to make up a bottle.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. You’re not … ?’
Laura shook her head again. ‘No. I tried, but it was pretty useless.’
Hardly surprising, Vivien thought. She was such a slim wand of a girl. She probably wasn’t healthy enough to be feeding her own baby. There was nothing of her.
Laura rummaged in her shoulder bag and produced a bottle, a teat, some formula powdered milk in a tin.
‘Sterilising tablets?’ Vivien asked.
‘Sorry.’
Well, no. She couldn’t imagine Laura worrying about those. ‘Shall I do it?’ she asked, since Laura had made no move to do so. And anyway, she had the baby to look after, and she was crying more loudly now. How come Laura didn’t have a bottle made up and ready? Vivien certainly would have. But then Vivien didn’t have a baby, did she? And she wasn’t Laura either – a girl who had been travelling around Spain and God knows where else. Who probably lived the kind of lifestyle where you didn’t worry about babies crying or bottles of milk being made up in advance. And a girl, she reminded herself sternly, who had just lost her mother.
‘It’s no trouble.’ Vivien got to her feet. ‘I’ll soon read the instructions on the tin.’
She needed to do.
By the time she’d prepared the baby’s milk, the little one was howling and Laura’s eyes were big and hollow as eggcups. She was clearly exhausted.
‘Would you like me to take her?’ Vivien had never fed a baby before. There was something so appealing about this little one, even with her gummy screaming. Her fists were as scrunched up as her red pixie face. Vivien couldn’t help smiling. She had quite a temper on her.
‘Oh, yes please.’ Laura seemed relieved. She handed the baby over and sank back against the cushions. ‘I’m so tired.’
‘Doesn’t she sleep very well?’ Vivien took the screaming bundle carefully on to her lap, tested the milk on the back of her hand, supported the baby’s head and offered the bottle. Immediately the little one latched on to the teat. Silence. Again, Vivien smiled. Such simple needs.
The baby closed her eyes for a few seconds and then stared up at Vivien. Her steady blue gaze was disconcerting. Her brow was hot with the state she had got herself into and with her little finger Vivien smoothed the faintest wisp of fair down away from the baby’s eyes. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that good?’
The baby sucked noisily. Vivien felt strangely calm and she sat back in the chair a bit. The little baby fists had opened now, spread-eagled like starfish, palms up, and Vivien experimentally put her little finger in the centre of one tiny palm. The baby hand closed tight around it. Goodness …
‘No, she doesn’t,’ Laura said suddenly, making Vivien jump. ‘She wakes up twice in the night usually. Sometimes I can’t stop her crying. You’ve got no idea.’ Her shoulders slumped.
It was true, Vivien thought. She had no idea. She thought of the tests they’d had. Unexplained infertility, had been the result. She and Tom had just looked at each other helplessly. What did that mean – and more to the point what could they do about it? In the end they hadn’t done anything – at least not yet. There was the option of treatment – there were drugs; injections of a fertility hormone – gonadotropin, it was called; try getting your tongue round that. There were clinics too. The next step was to find out more information, discover what was available. Or maybe even to accept that it wasn’t meant to be …
She eased the bottle to one side of the baby’s mouth and let the teat refill for a moment. The baby blinked and she replaced it. Vivien was trying to come to terms with childlessness. She knew she had a good life, she had work, she had her painting, she had Tom.
‘Lots of people choose not to have children,’ Tom had said, trying to make her feel better maybe. But that was the problem – Vivien had had the choice taken away from her. It wasn’t the end of the world and she’d come to terms with it if it wasn’t meant to be. But still, she thought, looking down at the baby in her arms. But still …
‘What happened when you had her?’ Vivien asked. ‘Were you in Spain?’
‘Yeah.’ Laura was slumped even further into the sofa now, half swallowed by it. She’d drunk her tea and eaten at least six biscuits. Life must be hard in Spain, Vivien thought.
‘What was the hospital like? Did everything go OK?’ She simply couldn’t imagine.
‘I didn’t have her in hospital.’ Laura yawned.
Oh. ‘Where then?’
‘In the camper van.’
‘The camper van?’ Vivien tried not to look too shocked. But – how could you have a baby in a camper van? It wasn’t exactly hygienic was it?
‘We put down some sheets and stuff,’ Laura said. ‘We had hot water.’
Vivien looked down at the baby. ‘It must have been difficult,’ she said. But she found herself wondering other things. Like who
had cut the umbilical cord? And had there been any pain relief available for Laura – or had she just got stoned?
‘It’s where we sleep.’ Laura sounded defensive now.
Vivien gave her a reassuring smile. ‘She looks healthy enough,’ she said. And she did. She was a small baby, but perfectly formed. Her cheeks were slightly flushed but now that she had her milk she was the picture of contentment. ‘And you had someone with you, did you – for the birth?’
‘Yeah.’ Laura didn’t elaborate.
Vivien wanted to ask so many more questions. But something in Laura’s expression stopped her. For God’s sake, Vivien, she told herself. The girl has just lost her mother. It wasn’t important. None of it was really important.
‘So when did you say she was born, this little one?’ she asked brightly.
‘I told you I couldn’t remember.’ Laura sounded sulky now. ‘A few months ago. Does it matter?’
‘Well, it matters to her.’ Vivien forced a lightness into her voice. ‘Otherwise how will she know when her birthday is?’ Birthday cake, candles, children’s party games … Her mind spun out the images.
‘We’ll choose a day,’ Laura said. She stared out of the window.
Choose a day? Perhaps she had post-natal depression. It was understandable – more than understandable after everything that had happened. ‘You haven’t registered her birth then?’ Vivien asked carefully. Really, the girl didn’t seem to have a clue.
‘We don’t believe in it,’ Laura said.
‘Oh?’
‘Being labelled, being controlled, being dictated to by society,’ Laura said. ‘Why should she be “registered”? She’s just a baby. A free spirit, you know?’
‘Hmm.’ Vivien was sure that there were lots of reasons why births had to be registered, but she decided now was not the time to discuss it. And Tom would say – quite rightly – that it was none of her business.
