The pictures of you and Sasha took my breath away, thank you so much for the photographs. Carla thinks Sasha looks like me. I hope you have found this letter interesting, I do hope it gives you some information about me. I would be delighted for you to phone me. I’m sure you and I will be okay together when we do eventually meet. I’m very easy going and young in my outlook, so I’m told. So bye for now. Hope to hear from you soon.
Lots of love,
Marie
xxxxxx
I was beginning to build a picture of Marie’s life. Through her letters, I was able to glimpse into the world she now occupied. I had learned a little about her, her children, and no less importantly, her past. Just before Christmas 2004, I received another one of her letters, with the important closing lines that would enable us to move even further forward.
Here’s my number, Dervla. I really would love to speak to you, when you’re ready. I can’t wait, love Marie. xxx
The only preparation I made before phoning Marie was to collect a steaming mug of tea, an ashtray, and more roll ups. I kept staring at her phone number, written in her tiny handwriting – the sort of handwriting that you’d expect of someone who’d left school at fifteen and had had no more education.
Terrified to hear her voice, but unable to resist, I pressed the numbers on the phone. The connection took a few moments. When she answered it sounded like she’d been running.
‘Hello?’
She sounded cross, breathless, a bit overwhelmed.
‘Hello Marie, it’s Dervla.’
Marie gasped. It sounded like she was crying. Then there was a pause.
‘Are you all right, Marie?’
‘Yes, yes love. I didn’t expect you, I never thought… I never thought I’d hear from you.’
A broad South Yorkshire accent, stilted with emotion, drifted down the line, so unexpectedly different from the imagined Irish voice.
‘Is this a bad time?’ I didn’t know what else to say.
‘No love, hang on, let me shut the door…’
Within a few seconds she was back.
‘Sorry, love, Vernon doesn’t know about you yet,’ she whispered conspiratorially into the phone.
‘Is Vernon your husband?’
‘Well, sort of, although we’re not married. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you, Dervla, but I haven’t found the right time to tell him about you yet.’ Her voice brightened. ‘Oh, how lovely to hear from you darlin’. I’m made up to hear your voice. I never thought it would happen all those years ago, when I lost my babies.’
‘It’s lovely to hear your voice, Marie. Do you mind me ringing then?’
‘No, sweetheart.’ Her words were warm. ‘How can I mind? I’m your mother.’
Hearing this made me wince. I felt she had no claim on that title.
‘A mother loves her children even if she loses them,’ she said, as if she could hear my own thoughts.
There was a pause as I took in the enormity of what she’d just said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, I want to hear about you, Dervla.’
I hadn’t been called Dervla since I’d been adopted – at least, only by hospitals and doctors that is. The NHS hadn’t got the hang of my new identity either. But Dervla was the name Marie had given me, so I guessed I was going to have to get used to it. Nevertheless, I tried to set her straight.
‘Most people call me, Dizzy.’
‘Oh… Dizzy, Diz.’
This lasted for exactly thirty seconds, then it was back to Dervla again. It’s obviously hard to change the habit of a lifetime.
We talked about my twin, who had died at a few days old, about Tommy and how much she had loved him, still loved him perhaps, about my half-siblings, her job, where she lived, her Irish family. She said how strange it was that she was talking to a grown woman who had once been her baby. She made me cry with laughter, then just cry. She was warm and caring. I got the impression she took care of everybody. Except she hadn’t taken care of me.
She talked with such love about her other children, that I knew family was hugely important to her. Naturally or not, I wondered what had I done wrong for her to not want to keep me? She talked about how she would do anything for her children. About how she’d had a terrible time when barely eighteen, with no choice but to have her baby adopted.
The call lasted for three hours. When it was over I couldn’t remember a thing about what we talked about. I couldn’t even remember what she sounded like. I wasn’t sure if my heart was opening up, or closing down for good.
I went to find Will, who was watching Pearl Harbour again. He was on the sofa, flanked by the dogs.
‘Sorry it took so long, Will,’ I said.
He rolled me a cigarette and switched off his film.
‘That’s all right, love. How did it go?’
His eyes told me he was worried, that he was hoping for positive news.
‘She’s lovely, I think. Sorry, I can’t take it all in, she’s obviously not like I expected. I’m sure she feels confused by it all. Actually – it must be awful for her.’
I spilt it all out between more tears. With Will as the best listener, I was able to re-live the conversation, going over it to help me remember, never wanting to ever forget talking to her for the first time.
‘And she isn’t stupid, she sounds really smart,’ I said, getting angry. ‘That social worker was cruel and a liar in what she said about Marie in that birth file. My God, Marie was little more than a child when all this happened to her.’
A child who was now claiming her right to be my mother. But I already had one, a consistent mother who had been able to stand by me – and who I didn’t want to hurt. She’d said it was fine, of course, but that was earlier, when the idea of finding Marie was abstract. Now it was feeling very real. I’d been driven by my need to find out, but nothing had prepared me for my conflicting emotions, for how easily people could get hurt, for what it might mean to have a whole new set of people in our lives.
My feelings of uncertainty before were nothing to the anxieties I was experiencing now. And most of them, at this stage, were around my adoptive mother.
I went back to Paula and we sat in her kitchen again. How things had changed since we had sat at the same table reading the birth file.
‘I don’t have to carry on with this – not if it’s hurting you, Mum.’
‘I’m fine; I think it will help you. Everyone needs to know where they come from.’
She reached her hand across the table, squeezing my hand in hers.
‘I want you to know, it doesn’t hurt me. I have to be honest though, I’m worried about you going to meet Marie on your own. I would come with you, but I don’t think it would be appropriate. How about Will?’
‘He’s always so busy,’ I replied.
‘Sugar? Sugar would come with you.’
‘I’ll be okay, Mum’, I said.
Later she wrote me a letter.
Chapter 13
Words from my adoptive mum to me
I believe in fate. I think you are in control of most of your life, but I believe something occasionally occurs over which you have no control and it changes the path of your life forever.
I had lost two babies. I couldn’t have any more, so ten years after Ellis was born we decided to adopt. The process was long and tedious, but we were accepted and, eventually, we had a letter to say a baby was available. We signed the acceptance letter and walked to the post box to send it. I was carrying the envelope, but just as I was about to put it in the post box, something made me hesitate.
‘I can’t do it,’ I said. ‘Supposing I have her home and can’t love her, it would be terrible for both of us.’ With that, my husband – and your father, Terry – took the letter out of my hand and popped it in the box.
&
nbsp; In the beginning we could only visit you once a week for an hour, and we had to stay in the foster home. I was so afraid you would forget us that I started wearing the same perfume every time in the hope it would remind you of me. It’s strange, because you have always had a keen sense of smell, and are emotionally affected by certain ones.
One day the powers that be said we could take you out for the afternoon. It had been snowing and the trees were heavy with snow and icicles. We drove out into the country, stopped the car, wrapped you in a blanket and carried you out under the trees. You were seven months and you looked up in wonder at the sun shining on the snow-covered branches. We shook the tree gently and the first snow came down and sprinkled your face. You loved it, and I saw you laugh for the first time.
When you finally came home, it was difficult for a couple of weeks, and you needed constant cuddling. Sometimes, when you wouldn’t settle, my mum would take you and walk the room singing “O God, our help in ages past”. You knew then who was in charge.
Once you entered our lives, we knew you were as much a part of us as our own son. For a long time I would put you to bed, kiss you, tell you stories, but I could never go back into the bedroom to check if you were asleep. The sight of your pale, quiet face with closed eyes, filled me with memories. Even now, after all these years, I find something unsettling in a silent baby.
You brought joy into our lives and still do, but I often think of your birth mum. When she contacted you, Dizzy, I think you were afraid it would hurt me, but it never did. The bond between us is too great. It has been established through years of good and bad experiences, and if your love has survived that, nothing will diminish it.
*
So, I kept checking with Mum, that she was all right, and the Friday night phone calls continued with Marie. It became a kind of pattern. Paula was the real-life, here and now mother; Marie was the might-have-been, somewhere-else mother, a voice on the telephone line.
I kept myself supplied with tea and cigarettes, Will kept himself supplied with old movies. Sasha could keep herself busy rescuing animals. We could carry on like that; there was nothing to get alarmed about – until the Friday when Marie said; ‘I want to see you, Dervla. When can you come?’
Chapter 14
Meeting Marie
So there I was, suitcase by my side, on that train, pulling up at Sheffield station. I remember thinking that, of all the places we could have chosen, this certainly wasn’t the most beguiling. My stomach lurched as the train ground to a halt alongside the platform. This journey had taken five hours and four decades.
I was in the last carriage. Outside there were people waiting, but they were all further up ahead, no-one was looking my way. I joined the queue in the aisle to get off the train, hastily making escape plans. I could wrap my scarf round my head, rush to the exit, cross over to the downline platform. Go home.
But of course I knew it was far too late. I was already completely entangled. The realisation released a metallic taste into my mouth, one I hadn’t tasted since pregnancy.
As soon as the train door was opened, passengers rushed to alight. A guard strode down the platform, slamming doors. As I heaved my suitcase, trailing at the back of the crowds of commuters, my legs felt like they might give way. I leaned against a concrete pillar, trying to steady myself, and stared up the platform. It was then I caught the first glimpse of my two half-sisters.
I knew them immediately, their faces made familiar by their photographs. But the black-and-white Polaroids hadn’t shown me how pretty their eyes were – almond-shaped and green.
We made our way through the crowds, pushing our way towards each other.
‘Dizzy, love, oh God, you’re here!’ Carla said, eyes smiling, but filling with tears. ‘I’ve been waiting all my life for you. Give us a hug.’
We must have looked a peculiar sight.
‘Mum’s going demented – your train was so late! We’d better get a move on,’ said Helena. She and Carla rushed me to the escalator. Reaching the top, I saw her.
Catching sight of us, she raised her arm in the air, ‘Dervla!’
She gained speed as she approached me – almost running – hurrying across the railway station, oblivious of other passengers. In my head, I had a picture of my birth mother that was formed when I was very young. Over the years, it had been embellished by imagination until she had become a fantasy figure, created out of my longing for knowledge. My mind’s image was, of course, nothing like this character who was heading ever faster towards me. She was no red-headed, green-eyed Riverdancer with a soft Wexford accent, that was for sure. In reality, her appearance was more like Bet Lynch, about to serve behind the bar of the Rovers Return. Her well-groomed appearance, although glamorous, somehow struck me as harsh. She wore pointy-toed, knee-length boots that wouldn’t suit my West Country feet.
And then she was there. The wait was over. Marie and I finally met face to face at Sheffield train station.
Her long black leather coat engulfed me, as the scary creature that was my birth mother embraced me – finally, after all these years. And yet whatever I felt, surely this was worse for her. I’d thought I was hardened. I’d kept telling myself that any separation anxiety had vanished long ago, that I was just here to tell her she had nothing to worry about – that it wouldn’t mean that much to me.
I was surprised how shocked I was by the reality of her. Marie’s perfume wasn’t cheap, but it was overpowering. It masked her true smell, a smell I didn’t remember, one that had been taken away from me. Instead, I had learned to recognise the scent of another mother, one who was steady and protective, and I had learned to love her perfume most in the world.
But Marie and I clung to each other as if we would never have to let go again. Still holding onto me, she dragged me off to see the rest of her family who’d been standing patiently outside a take-away coffee booth at the entrance to the station. They had formed a line, waiting to be introduced like wedding guests ready to greet a bride and groom before the reception. In the line-up was a mix of dark hair, auburn hair, pale skin and big eyes. Despite the differences in colouring, though, to me they all looked the same. A handsome bunch of strangers – but among them all, I thought, Carla was the real beauty.
The mood changed as our initial nervousness took its leave. For a moment, at least, meeting them felt surprisingly normal. The first awkward silences didn’t bother me, I was glad of the pauses in conversation, because there was so much to take in.
There were moments when we didn’t know what to do. After all, there’s no manual. Eventually, the pauses became fewer as this new family did what they knew best – they all started talking at once. It soon became apparent that these strangers were not a quiet bunch. Marie filled any long lapses in conversation by turning towards me and smiling, soaking me in. She’d let go of me now, but she was affectionate, she kept reaching out and touching me as if to make sure I was real. This was her day.
She wore heavy make-up. Dark long lashes set off her green eyes, feline, translucent, taking me in – and as familiar as my mirror image. Her blonde hair was piled up in a loose bun. Either side of her face, wispy bits of hair had been gently teased out and curled so symmetrically that it couldn’t have been an accident. Her lipstick ran very slightly over the top of her Cupid’s bow, framing a mouth shaped like a porcelain doll’s. Her alabaster complexion was almost hidden under a layer of foundation, though the make-up could not disguise her true Celtic skin.
She covered over any angst she might have been feeling and began moving us all along to where her car was parked. I was bundled into the back, along with my two half-sisters. The new family, it seemed, had kidnapped me.
I sat there, staring at Marie’s head and shoulders in the front. At last, here she was, solid and very much alive. Next to her, driving, was a bemused-looking man called Vernon, who had been unaware until recently that his partner
of over twenty years had a secret. Neither Marie, nor the rest of her family had ever mentioned her past to him. He’d had no clue about what had happened to her all those years ago. Keeping such a big secret seemed odd, but I realised there was so much I didn’t know about Marie – and who was I to judge her?
At no time did she make me feel anything but welcome. Although it was peculiar, I did feel as if I could be part of this family. At the same time, though, it was as if I’d met these people on a holiday. As if we’d all had a great fortnight, back in 1968, despite the teenage pregnancy and the abandonment, so I’d just gone back to stay for a couple of days so we could all relive the experience.
Elvis Presley’s “Always On My Mind” was playing in the car. I was cynical. Had it been planned? Afterwards, whenever I visited Marie, Elvis was always playing in the background of our lives. At that moment, though, instead of bringing us closer, hearing him had the same effect as the last song played at a teenage disco when the music and the magic is over, and you come face to face in the harsh lights. And however caring and however lovely she was, she wasn’t as I’d imagined her – it was unrealistic to think that she would have been. Neither could I respond to her in the way she had reacted to me. What I was feeling wasn’t affection – it was more like aversion. Registering this, I felt at fault; culpable in that I might have let my aversion show. Guilty that I’d already hurt her; convicted of not being good enough.
*
Marie’s house was immaculately clean. At least, I assumed the bungalow was Marie’s; there was no time to ask about such inconsequential information. More relatives were presented. I’d been doing all right until I saw the children; little dots with huge eyelashes, framing emerald eyes that searched our faces in puzzlement. All so similar looking to my own child that I had to look away as they were introduced.
Strays and Relations Page 8
