There were no lights on at Ben’s house, but I still rapped loudly on the door knocker a few times, just in case his plans had changed and he’d unexpectedly returned home for the weekend. When I felt confident that the house really was empty, I let myself in with the spare key that Ben had suggested I hang onto, as long as I pinkie-promised him not to break in and steal the king whenever it was in his possession!
I hadn’t realised I was quite so tense until I shut the door behind me and a wave of relief washed over me. A small two-up two-down mid-terrace, with film posters on the walls rather than pictures, and piles of books, CDs and DVDs everywhere, it reminded me of student digs, but without the dodgy smells and stains. It was homely. It was safe. It would be my haven for the evening and I’d head back to Orion Point in the morning.
Coffee. I dumped my handbag in the hallway, wandered through to the kitchen with a carrier bag of provisions from the local Spar, filled the kettle and popped a bottle of wine into the fridge for later. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I went upstairs. I poked my head around Ben’s bedroom door, just in case, but his room was empty. In my former room at the front of the house, I drew the curtains, then undressed and pulled on a pair of fleecy pyjamas and slipper socks that I kept there.
Ten minutes later, I was curled up on the sofa with a coffee and a film. Thirty minutes after that, my Indian takeaway arrived. I cracked open the wine and dished up my meal. It had definitely been the right decision to come to Ben’s. It was just a shame that he wasn’t there.
Sunday dawned and I still couldn’t bring myself to go back to my empty apartment. Even though Ben’s house was empty too, it felt different.
I had a long soak in the bath, then borrowed a pair of Ben’s PJs and his dressing gown, and retreated to the sofa to watch back-to-back films.
A text came through shortly after I’d had some lunch:
* From Sarah
We’ve landed safely! At Manchester station waiting to get train home. Can’t believe nearly 3 weeks are over already. Should be home by 5. Catch up soon xx
I tapped in a response:
* To Sarah
Welcome back from honeymoon! Hope you had an amazing time. Loads to tell you. If you’re not too tired, give me a call when you’re settled xx
When 5pm arrived, my stomach did a somersault. Sarah would be home now. She could call at any moment. I tutted at myself. Eejit. She’d surely check in with her parents and Nick’s mum before ringing me. And she might not even ring me if she was shattered. Which she probably would be, given that she’d have flown through the night.
I rolled off the sofa and headed into the kitchen, where I distracted myself by preparing an omelette and some salad. Once I’d eaten it, I couldn’t stop fidgeting. I kept picking up my phone, putting it down, picking it up again. Despite half-expecting her call, I still managed to jump when Sarah’s name flashed up on the screen. She was my best and oldest friend. It was ridiculous that I felt nervous about speaking to her.
When I’d been with Elise the day before, she’d told me that she’d confessed to Sarah about her pregnancy before Sarah left for her honeymoon. Apparently, they’d had a huge argument about keeping secrets. Sarah had been particularly hurt that they’d been best friends since the age of four and Elise hadn’t felt she could tell her such life-changing news, yet I – the enemy – knew. If she’d reacted that badly to a secret Elise had kept from her for five months or so, how was she going to react to something I’d kept from her for the 13 years since we’d met on our first day at Manchester University?
As I accepted Sarah’s call, I toyed with whether to wait until I saw her face to face before telling her about my past, but I felt I owed it to her to tell her sooner rather than later.
It was the world’s worst phone call. I’d imagined all afternoon how it would go and nowhere in my imaginings had I called her a ‘selfish eejit’, yet that’s exactly what I did. I lost it. I’d gone for the pleasantries first – how was Canada/what was the best thing you did/favourite place/was it cold? and all that malarkey – but she gave really brief answers before changing the subject to Elise and Stevie. They’d just visited and told her they were moving in together. She was thrilled they’d got together but worried that they were moving in too soon. And, speaking of moving in together, apparently her auntie Kay and Philip were also setting up home. Kay was putting her cottage, Smuggler’s View, on the market, which had shocked and upset Sarah.
I should have left my confession for another time. I should have accepted that she’d already had an overload of surprise information that evening and was never going to be able to process what I said. Yet, I just blurted it all out. It was the first opportunity to tell her, and I didn’t want her getting upset later that I hadn’t opened up to her as soon as I’d started talking about my past.
I’d like to say she was supportive. I’d really like to say that. But all I got was: ‘What made you confess all this to Elise? When did you two become the best of mates?’
We argued. Nasty things were said by both of us that couldn’t be unsaid. She slammed the phone down on me in tears.
In bed that night, I lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying our conversation, and I felt sick. I could see her point. It had to hurt that she’d tried to be there for me for all those years and I’d refused to open up. I’d thrown strops and stormed off every time I let something minor slip about my past, and Sarah had handled it with support and compassion for years, never pushing me but always making it clear that she was there for me whenever I was ready. To have me finally open up to my former nemesis had to be a slap across the face with a wet kipper – especially after Elise had confessed that I knew about her baby first, and about her and Stevie. Yes, I could definitely see why she reacted the way she did, but surely she could see that the letter from Great-Aunt Nuala was the catalyst for me needing to open up. Call it the straw that broke the camel’s back. If she’d been here, of course I’d have gone to her first.
If I’m honest, Ben would have been my second choice, not Elise, but he’d been away and it wasn’t something I wanted to confess for the first time over the phone or via social media. Sure, in an ideal world, I wouldn’t have told Sarah over the phone, but there was no going back. I just hoped we could recover from it.
Chapter 13
I sat at the dining table back at Orion Point on Monday morning, staring at Shannon’s photo and the list of information about her and her adoptive parents that had accompanied Great-Aunt Nuala’s letter. Elise had been right: I was always going to try to find her.
I sighed and put Great-Aunt Nuala’s letter down. I was meant to be working from home but I couldn’t concentrate. Between the letter and the call with Sarah, my mind was on anything but sales figures and promotional strategies. Coffee.
Feeling a bit calmer with a dose of caffeine flowing through my veins, I closed down my spreadsheet, opened Google and typed in: how would I find a baby given up for adoption? I scanned down the list of results. ‘UK Birth Adoption Register,’ I said. ‘Looks like a good starting point.’ I clicked into it. ‘Information on what to do if you were adopted in the UK’. No. I wasn’t the one who was adopted. ‘Ah! Information on what to do if you gave a child up for adoption in the UK. That’s better. “Unfortunately, under UK law, it is illegal to try to make contact with an adopted child, at least until they turn 18 years of age”. Feck. She’s only 16.’
I scrolled further down the page, clicking on various related websites, but nothing seemed helpful. Then I spotted a link to an adoption-search message board. Interesting. I clicked on it and waited a moment for it to load. A stack of messages appeared. I started scrolling through, but it was going to take forever. There had to be some sort of search facility. It wasn’t in an obvious place but I found one and entered her name: Shannon O’Connell… No! Shannon Kitteridge. I triple-checked the spelling on Great-Aunt Nuala’s note before I presse
d ‘return’. Surely there couldn’t be many Shannon Kitteridges out there? A pageful of messages loaded and my heart leapt, then sank again. All Shannons. No Kitteridges. Bollocks!
I tapped my fingers on the keyboard, then returned to Google and typed in: Shannon Kitteridge. A record of a Shannon Kitteridge living in Bognor Regis came up. With shaky fingers, I clicked on it and the first thing I noticed was the age guide of ‘65-plus’. Bollocks again! I returned to my Google search, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I slumped back on the sofa, arms folded. What next?
As my eyes scanned the table, I clocked the letter from Bowson, Higgs & Crane. They’d offered to help, hadn’t they? I reread the letter. It was probably just a polite standard line in all their correspondence, but what the heck? I dialled the number and quoted my great-aunt’s name.
‘Hello, Ms O’Connell, this is Angela Crane. I was your great-aunt’s solicitor. Am I right in thinking you’ve received her letter?’
‘Last week. You said to call you if you could help me…?’
‘Of course. What’s your query?’
‘It’s a long shot…’ I explained about the content of the letter.
After I’d finished, Angela said, ‘Unfortunately, under UK law, it’s illegal to search for a child you’ve given up for adoption until they’ve turned 18 and are therefore classed by law as an adult.’
‘I’m aware of that, and Shannon won’t be 18 for another 18 months. Is there anything else that can be done?’
‘I’m assuming you’ve Googled her name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And those of the adoptive parents?’
‘Muppet! I never thought of that. Thanks, Angela.’ Before she could respond, I hung up. I quickly typed in the names of Paul and Christine Kitteridge, plus Northampton, where Great-Aunt Nuala had said they lived. The search revealed several newspaper articles. I’d found them! I’d definitely found them. Oh. They were both dead. I picked up the phone and called Angela again.
‘I think we got cut off,’ she said, a little sharply.
‘I’m sorry. I hung up in my excitement. Are you by a computer?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I know this may seem a little unusual, but can I ask you to Google something and see what you make of it? You can bill me for the time I’ve taken up.’
There was a pause and a sigh. ‘Okay. You have my attention, but only because my 10 o’clock has failed to show. What do you want me to Google?’
‘Paul and Christine Kitteridge of Northampton.’ I heard her tapping on a keyboard. ‘Click on the article a few results down that says “Tragic couple leave daughter” and tell me what you make of it.’
The line went quiet. As I waited impatiently for her to speak, I scanned down the article again. They had to be the same family. Just had to be.
‘Hi, Ms O’Connell. It would seem that these are the same people who adopted your daughter, given the use of her middle name and the suggestion that she was adopted. The problem is, it gives no indication of where she went next. Foster care is most likely, as it says that neither Mr nor Mrs Kitteridge had siblings.’
‘So, what do I do next?’
‘All I can suggest is that you make contact with Social Services in Northampton. They may not be able to help, given the law, but they’d be your best starting point. Because Shannon’s adoptive parents are deceased, it puts the law into a different context, but the law is there to protect the child as much as the parents, and the fact still remains that Shannon is under 18. I wish I could help further but I’m not a specialist in this area. Would you like me to recommend someone who is?’
My heart sank. It was over. Well, for now anyway. ‘I might come back to you on that.’
Angela gave me her email address in case I did want a recommendation, then wished me luck again before hanging up. I reread the article. Shannon’s adoptive mother had been active in fundraising for breast cancer after her mother had died from it. Sadly, she developed the disease herself – a particularly aggressive form – and was dead within a year, leaving behind an adopted 10-year-old daughter. Then, three years later, her adoptive father dropped dead from an aneurism. Absolutely tragic.
I shook my head, sent the article to print, emailed a copy to Elise to get her take on it (I was still sulking too much to share it with Sarah), then phoned in sick. It was partly true. My head throbbed and I felt emotionally drained. Very emotionally drained.
‘Hi, Elise,’ I said, turning down my music on Saturday morning.
‘Are you driving?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but I’m on hands-free.’
‘Where are you?’
‘About 20 minutes from Whitsborough Bay. I told Sarah about the skeletons in my closet on Sunday. To say she was upset that I hadn’t confided in her sooner would be the understatement of the century. We haven’t spoken since, although we’ve exchanged a few curt texts. I don’t need the stress of falling out with my oldest friend right now, so I’ve invited myself over to make my peace and find out about Canada.’
‘Stevie and I went round on Sunday too and told her about moving in together,’ Elise said. ‘She was pretty shocked about that.’
‘She told me. Apparently, Kay went over there too and she had news. I don’t think Sarah was expecting to come back to so many revelations!’
Elise laughed. ‘Is she expecting you?’
‘No, but I thought I’d surprise her in the shop and hope she doesn’t have plans for tonight. Why?’
‘I wondered if you wanted to meet me first to chat about the article you sent me.’
‘You don’t mind me taking more of your time?’
‘Of course not. That’s what friends are for.’ There was a pause. ‘There’s also something I need to tell you.’
My stomach lurched. ‘Are you okay? Is the baby okay?’
‘We’re both fine. It’s something else, but it’s not a conversation for the phone. Could you come to the house?’
‘Sounds serious. I’m just pulling into a lay-by. You can give me the postcode for my sat nav.’
Half an hour later, I pulled up outside Elise and Stevie’s home – Bramble Cottage in Little Sandby. I gave Stevie a quick hug. He’d actually been my friend before he’d met Elise. When Sarah had moved back to Whitsborough Bay, we’d double-dated Stevie and his best mate, Rob, after Sarah joined an online dating agency. Stevie and Sarah had hit it off immediately, but the chemistry was missing, so they’d become friends rather than a couple. Ironically, Rob had then got together with Elise’s husband, Gary, and Elise had finally hooked up with Stevie. Talk about partner-swapping. Seriously. You couldn’t make this stuff up!
Stevie made drinks, then muttered some excuse about work before heading upstairs.
‘Spill,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa. ‘I can’t stand the suspense.’
‘Please don’t be mad at me. I know you said you didn’t want to find Daran but it was such a romantic story, and curiosity got the better of me, so I Googled him.’
My heart thumped and I felt a little light-headed. I slumped back in my seat. ‘Elise! What did I say to you just last Saturday?’
‘I know. I was being nosy and I had no plans to share my findings with you. Only, I think you should know what I found out.’
I sighed. ‘If you’re going to tell me he married a nun and spawned the next von Trapp family, I’m really not interested. It was 17 years ago.’ I realised as I said it that I absolutely didn’t want to hear that he’d got married. That was what we had wanted. It wasn’t right to think that he’d done that with someone else.
Elise bit her lip. ‘After he left your village, he went to Thailand to do some sort of missionary work.’
‘And he shacked up with a ladyboy?’ It felt inappropriate to say it, but after a decade and a half of trying not to think about Daran, discussing him like t
his was a bit overwhelming, and humour was the only defence mechanism I had in me.
Elise shook her head. ‘He was there in 2004.’
‘So?’
‘Christmas, 2004.’
‘So?’
‘Boxing Day, 2004. Thailand.’
My hand went to my mouth. ‘The tsunami?’ I whispered.
Elise nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Clare.’
My mouth went very dry. ‘He’s dead?’
‘I found this article online.’
Elise handed me a crumpled piece of paper, but my eyes couldn’t seem to focus on the words. ‘What does it say?’
She perched on the edge of the coffee table. ‘Do you want me to read it to you?’
I reached for the Claddagh ring I now wore on my right hand and twisted it around and around my finger. Somehow I found the strength to nod.
Catholic Online
16th January 2005
A service was held yesterday in the Church of St Paul the Apostle in Dublin to commemorate the thousands who tragically lost their lives during the tsunami that hit Thailand, Indonesia and the surrounding area on 26th December, 2004, or during the days that followed.
Amongst those specifically remembered was humanitarian Daran Seamus McInnery. Mr McInnery had been working tirelessly with local communities in Sumatra for three years, having previously supported community work in Counties Wicklow and Cork.
Mr McInnery was the eldest of eight siblings. His three sisters and four brothers all attended the service, along with his mother. His father had passed away shortly after his youngest sister was born.
I felt funny, as if I were swimming in glue, unable to move or breathe or think straight. I listened to Elise’s fuzzy words, my mind saying over and over, ‘It might not be him,’ but the facts were there: the middle name, the communities in Ireland, the seven siblings, the deceased father. It was definitely him. The last thing I heard was Elise shouting for Stevie to help her. Then the room went dark.
Dreaming About Daran (Whitsborough BayTrilogy Book 3) Page 8
