“Where will the children go to school? I thought they loved their school here.” Marjorie said with a slight panic in her voice.
“Oh they’ll probably go to an International School.”
“When are you thinking of going?”
“Soon. We haven’t sorted out the fine details, but you must come out with us in the Easter holidays. We’ve rented somewhere in the interim.”
“What about flights?”
“I’ll arrange those. Just say you’ll come?”
“I’ll think about it.”
And with that Marjorie put the phone down. All she wanted was what was best for her daughter and grandchildren. Her daughter arranged for her to fly to Nice with them. Marjorie found the effort of getting to the airport and on to the plane exhausting. Once she got to France she found the whole idea of moving there depressing. She was used to her flat in Maida Vale. She was used to living on her own. She didn’t want to start being sociable now. She didn’t have the energy.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I can’t come and live with you. You have your life to live. I just feel that I keep going on and on.”
Marjorie could see that her daughter was saddened by her decision.
“At the very least can’t we get you a carer? I worry about you so much now. You’re not getting any younger.”
“No.” She said with some finality.
Eventually Marjorie heard from Rosie they had found the perfect house they wanted in a Domaine overlooking the medieval village of Saint Paul. Rosie told Marjorie that her husband had also re established contact with his father who had been trying to trace them in the South of France. Marjorie knew from her experience with Arthur that you couldn’t be over cautious and told Rosie to tell her husband to make amends even though he was still young at 59.
She was surprised the following week when they both popped in to see her
“Hi Marjorie, how are you?”
She ushered them in to her apartment and offered them each a glass of wine. The flat was looking a bit shabby now. She needed to remind Rosie to try and get a cleaner.
“I’ve invited Dad to spend Christmas with us at our house in Saint Paul. We’ve booked the Colombe d’Or for Christmas Eve.”
“Isn’t that the famous hotel that Rosie has mentioned with paintings donated from Chagall, Renoir and Matisse?” Marjorie said gulping her wine.
“Yes, nearly always fully booked.”
His dad stood up and looked at the photos of his grandchildren in the silver frames on the side. They had all grown up since he last saw them. They talked awhile about the South of France and how the children were settling in. Eventually when they could see that Marjorie was drifting in and out of consciousness, they put a blanket over her and said their goodbyes.
That was the last time, Marjorie’s son in law saw his dad. Tragedy struck that Christmas when the weekend before Rosie had the rest of the family over. It was Saturday morning when Marjorie received the phone call.
“Mum.”
“What is it?”
“Roger died this morning of a massive heart attack.”
“Oh no I’m so sorry darling.”
“He was like the father I never had.”
“I know.”
“I feel so guilty for not having seen him. Now he will never get to see his grandchildren.”
“Grief affects us in various ways.” Marjorie said.
She was in a state of utter shock herself. This was like the re run of Arthur dying, all those feelings of guilt and anguish returning. Why not me? Why do all the best people get taken. She’d always warmed to Roger. He was a difficult fellow, but no one deserved this?
She could hear her daughter sobbing on the other end of the phone.
“They’re saying that he took a lease on a flat in Nice, just down the road from us!”
“You must go through the grieving process. It takes a long time.”
Arrangements were made for everyone to fly back for the funeral. Marjorie was to fly back to Nice with Rosie and her husband the following day so she could spend Christmas with them. Christmas was a solemn affair, with only Marjorie, her stepson and family in tow. Over the following days, Rosie would talk to Marjorie, about how to handle the grief. As a family, they would often go down to Juan les Pins to watch the sun set over the water.
“Mum, I had to clear out the flat in Nice the other day.”
“That must have been grim darling.”
“The thing is, I know it sounds strange but every time I get in to the lift since he’s died the lift stops.”
“I often found that when your dad died.”
“I went through his apartment and in the kitchen, poking out from one of the overhanging cupboards was a copy of the New Testament. He never mentioned that he was a Church goer, but I found it comforting, that he found God before he died.”
Marjorie didn’t have the answers any more. She daren’t tell Rosie, but she had been seeing more and more strange visions, back at her apartment. In truth she was a little scared. She was sure that there had been people rummaging through her apartment.
One evening she was so scared, she hobbled out of her apartment and down the five flights of stairs, nearly tripping over her nightie as she reached the front entrance. The night air was freezing when she emerged outside in to the main road beneath her. She aimlessly walked through the streets and into the roads. Many cars and taxis had to swerve away to avoid hitting her. Many were blasting their horns.
“Watch out lady, you nearly killed yourself!” said a young man walking in the opposite direction. He grabbed hold of her arm. Marjories’s hair was dishevelled and her eyes were bloodshot.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“You shouldn’t be out here in your night clothes. You will catch your death!”
“I heard voices in my apartment.”
The man held on to Marjorie as he retrieved his mobile and started typing in the numbers.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” He said.
Back in France, Rosie was sitting on her terrace overlooking the medieval village of Saint Paul. She could see the moon shimmering on the Mediterranean sea in the distance.
“I’m a bit worried,” she said to he husband whilst sipping a cool glass of wine and taking the first drag of her cigarette. They had just put the children to bed after a long day at school. They were now soaking up the evening air in their garden.
“I’ve rung my mother four times now and she has not answered. She shouldn’t really be going out on her own with her walking stick. She could get mugged or anything could happen.”
“I suggest you call the police first, see if they know anything.”
Rosie called Paddington Green Police Station. She explained that she lived in France and was worried about her mother who was 82. They said they would make enquiries and get back to her. They did not call back for about an hour and Rosie was frantic with worry. Eventually they called.
“We have found your mother. She was walking the streets of London in her nightie. She thinks there were people in her apartment. They have admitted her to St Mary’s Paddington. She has had a stroke.”
Rosie did not know if it was the shock of the death of her father in law which caused the stroke or what. Her husband said it was ironic that the last hours he had spent with his father had been with Rosie’s adoptive mother. Her adoptive mother was the one that kept saying she wanted to die young.
Marjorie remained in St Mary’s for the next few months, before returning to her flat in Maida Vale. She would only agree to a carer if it was one that was privately employed by her.
All Rosie could think about from then on, was turning forty soon and wondering when she was going to make steps to find her real mother.
FINDING MIRIAM 2007
SOUTH OF FRANCE
“I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE IT!” exclaimed her husband “We go to the Colombe D’Or where normally it is so difficult to get a table and bump in
to two Irish people who think they may know your real mother.”
“I know, I can’t quite believe it myself.” She said taking another sip of wine from her glass. “Did I tell you that I bought a new diary a few months back and by pure coincidence my birthday falls on Saint Rosalie’s Day in the Catholic calendar. I know my adoptive mother was thinking of calling me Sarah and my real mother named me Michelle. I mean why Saint Paul? We moved here by pure coincidence.”
“I know.” Her husband replied. “It feels like there is some religious significance to all this which is baffling.”
The following week passed and there was no phone call relating to her birth mother. She began to despair that the whole thing had been a useless exercise and that the only way she was going to find her was by hiring a private detective, something she was loathe to do. She had for once been given hope that in some way her mother had found her, that she had not betrayed her adoptive mother in any way. Her husband always said that he thought someone was always looking out for her. She always seemed to possess a bit of luck in anything she turned her hand to. She was usually the eternal optimist and he was the eternal pessimist. However on this occasion she was beginning to despair as to what optimism was.
The weekend after that they were due to go out for a big weekend with her husband’s sisters and their other halves at the Eden Roc in Cap d’Antibes. They decided not to go out for lunch that day as they were going for a big night out. She had a glass of wine at home and then decided to go to bed on the basis she didn’t feel well. She was saddened by the fact they had received no phone call. To have hope and have that hope taken away is worse than no hope at all. She slipped in and out of consciousness that afternoon on their bed.
Suddenly the door burst open and her husband strode in.
“I’ve just been listening to the messages on my phone and there was one from Fidelma a week ago asking you to phone her back. Here take a listen.”
Why had she doubted her? She took the phone and pressed the message button.
“Hi Rosie, it’s Fidelma. I’ve got some news about your mother. Can you give me a call.”
She knew from the tone of her message that something wasn’t right. She took out her card and then took the portable out in to the garden to make the call.
“Hi Fidelma. How are you?”
“I’m fine thanks. Listen I’ve got some good news and bad news. The good news is that we found your mother, but she died of breast cancer at the age of 45. She was a famous model and fashion designer in Dublin and my mother used to buy her designs and became good friends with her. We have managed to find her only surviving sister who lives in Spain. Listen I know it is a long shot, but would you like to come to my daughter’s christening in Macroom next weekend? I can sort out the hotels and a babysitter. We could arrange to meet some of your mother’s best friends. There are direct flights I think from Nice to Cork every day. Please say you will come. We are all in shock here.”
Tears poured down her face. She had found her mother too late. And yet, here was a chance to find out more about her, maybe go to Spain to see her sister. They hardly knew this couple, but Fidelma was being so kind.
“Of course we’d love to come. I’ll check out the flights and call you back.”
And then she put the phone down and howled with crying. Her husband held her tight. Even if she had gone in search of her would she have found her in time? How come she had found her in Saint Paul?
“We don’t have to go out this evening you know. I can call my sister and cancel if you want to.”
“No, don’t cancel, I want to go. But don’t dampen the evening by telling them the news. In some ways this is a small miracle this is happening. Let’s enjoy this evening. We don’t get to go out much these days without the children.”
They booked the flights and she rang Fidelma to tell her they were coming that weekend. They told their eldest what was happening but not their other two. They didn’t even know yet that she was adopted. They were still very young to digest this information. The babysitter arrived and they got changed. They then drove to the Eden Roc where they parked the car for them. They then met up with her husband’s sisters and their partners on the terrace of the hotel for a glass of champagne. The terrace overlooked the gardens which stretched about a quarter of a mile down to the ocean. The light was beginning to fade as they sipped their cocktails.
“I can’t believe the rooms here, they are amazing,” said her husband’s sister.
“They cost a small fortune.” Said her partner. “Luckily the company are paying.”
They were down there for a big PR party for various advertising companies in Cannes. Depending on how they all felt, the plan was to hit the VIP beach parties later on. They chatted to a few other people on the terraces who wanted to know where to go for lunch the next day. At about 8 o’clock they made their way down to the restaurant on the rocks overlooking the sea. The moon was shimmering on the water below. Their table overlooked the ocean where they could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below. It was such a beautiful setting. She squeezed her husband’s hand. They both knew what she was thinking. She had found her mother, and next weekend who knew what the world would bring?
That evening they ate a very expensive meal and then piled in a convoy of taxis to go to the parties on the beach in Cannes. She managed not to say anything about the days’ events until the end of the evening. Both her husband’s sisters knew she was adopted but they hadn’t really spoken much about it. Whilst they were recovering from the dancing on the sand with a cigarette in their hands she told them what had happened that day and that they were all going to Ireland the following weekend.
“I can’t believe it. Rosie you will have to let us know what happens when you get back.”
“The thing is, I still don’t know what to expect. What will her friends be like, I wonder? Will they like me? Will I like them? And what about my father in all of this?
“You’ll get the answers you are looking for. Ireland is meant to be a great place.”
She was still in shock that night. She was looking forward to the forthcoming journey. It was what she had wanted all her life, to find out where she came from, where she belonged. But would she belong? Would the journey take her back to no man’s land. One thing for sure she had her own family now in her husband’s sisters and their three beautiful children.
ROSIE 2007
IRELAND
THE DAY BEFORE the planned trip for Ireland, they were busily packing their suitcases and getting their documents together. Their cleaner came to collect their dog. The children were excited about going on a mini holiday. Her husband checked the flights on the internet.
“Oh my God he said, I’ve booked the wrong dates. We’re going to miss the christening.”
“How did that happen?” She asked.
“I don’t know I must have pressed the wrong button on the computer.”
“We need to change them. What if all the flights are full? They are probably not transferable.”
Her heart was pounding so fast, she broke out in a sweat. They couldn’t not go to the christening. They just couldn’t. Her husband frantically logged on to the internet.
“They’ve got five seats left. It is going to cost another five hundred euros. We don’t have a choice.”
After the longest thirty minutes ever they got their new tickets and reservations. They were booked on the 11 o’ clock flight to Cork on the Friday.
They queued at Nice airport Terminal One surrounded by Irish people. It felt very strange to hear the Irish accent. It had a lyrical quality to it. Once on the plane her husband settled down to playing cards with the boys. Rosie just sat and read with her daughter looking at the inflight magazine and reading up about Cork and the surrounding areas. The flight was only an hour and a half and when they landed it was raining. Everyone seemed very welcoming, in sharp contrast to France. They jumped in a hire car and headed off to Macroom. All the road signs
were in Irish and English.
“Lets listen to some Irish music.” The children sang along to the radio, as they left Cork behind them and set off for Macroom. The rain had stopped now and they started edging through the green countryside through small villages. Every now and then there would be an ancient ruin on the side of the road. There were also a number of new developments, the ones that Nick had referred to.
About half an hour later they reached Macroom, a small market town with a Castle in the middle. They were booked in to the Castle Hotel Macroom.
“Hello there, we’re expecting you,” beamed the receptionist. “We’ve sorted out a babysitter for you for 7 o’ clock this evening. If you care for some lunch there’s a restaurant on the ground floor open all day. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
They took their bags up to their rooms and then went down to the restaurant. They were serving roast dinners, her husband’s favourite.
“This gravy is wonderful, I thought yours was good.”
“I wonder how they make it so good. Maybe there is an Irish secret to it.”
That afternoon they walked around Macroom. There was a monument in the centre of the town dedicated to the IRA.
“You never know you may be related to them,” her husband said. “This could explain a lot about you.” he joked. From the monument they walked round the castle, and from there they walked up the high street to buy an antique silver bracelet for the christening. When Rosie spoke to the shop owner he confirmed that some famous films had been made in the area about the IRA, one including Liam Neeson. He wrote down on a piece of paper the names of those movies. She wanted to say that she was one of them, that she was Irish and that this was her home town. But she couldn’t explain away her clipped English accent or the fact that she was in a small Irish town where she was yet to meet her mother’s friends.
That evening they were getting ready for dinner. Fidelma had arranged for them to meet her first in the bar and then go to a little restaurant around the corner which served good food. She said that Nick was driving down from Dublin and would be joining them later. Rosie took great care that evening on what to wear. She put on some Joseph trousers with some high heels a small vest and a beautiful silk Armani jacket. Her hair was down and her make-up was perfectly applied. She wanted her mother’s friends to like her and be proud of her.
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