The Adoption

by Anne Berry

  ‘It felt like one.’

  ‘There are no wrong answers. Anyway, they saw the paperwork, the proof.’

  ‘Henry, they kept it, all of it. My originals. All I have of my history.’

  ‘That’s normal.’

  ‘What happens if they lose them?’

  ‘They won’t. They’ll send them to you with your passport. Are you coming home, love?’ my husband wants to know.

  ‘I’m five minutes from Waterloo. I’ll ring you when I’m on the train. And Henry?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am coming home.’

  Each day I wait for the post, shuffling through the letters and bills disconsolately to see if there is something from the passport office. A week goes by with no communication, a fortnight. My imagination runs amuck. Henry senses that I do not want to discuss my lack of status. I am a non-entity, a vaporous being, a violin without strings. If it were not for my family, my dog, I would not function at all. I have become an insomniac. The hours after midnight, I occupy sitting in our bedroom by the closed window pulling the mantle of dark about me. I listen to the owls’ hoots and the strangled cry of foxes.

  Will a letter come couched in official jargon informing me that they have flipped a coin? Heads and I am British, tails and I am German. Perhaps for the remainder of my days I will be batted like a ping-pong ball between Germany and England, as they thrash out which court is mine. Will Henry and the children come to visit me in a refugee camp? And what about my dog, what about Lola? If they see fit to turf me out, maybe the solution will be to sneak back in. An illegal immigrant in my own country? I can harvest fruit, work in restaurant kitchens, pluck chickens, wash cars, sell my body. I strike this last from my list of possibilities. Glancing down at myself in my brushed cotton pyjamas, I decide that at fifty-three there may be no takers. And besides, Henry will not be overly thrilled at the prospect of his wife, illegal immigrant or not, pounding the streets of Soho in her brogues.

  Next morning there comes a knock on the door of Pear Tree Cottage. The postman has a bulky envelope for me. Recorded delivery for Laura Ryan. I must sign for it. My signature is an indecipherable scrawl, but he seems content with it. Henry is out assisting a tree surgeon in taking down an ancient oak ridden with honey fungus. It is an hour before I muster the courage to open it, sitting on the settee. When I do, upturning it over the seat, the first thing it disgorges is maroon-coloured, something the size of a compact notebook, something that would fit comfortably into the palm of your hand. As if reading Braille, my quaking fingers tremble over the gold lettering.

  EUROPEAN UNION

  UNITED KINGDOM OF

  GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND

  Below it is the gold coat of arms, the lion and the unicorn with the crown sandwiched between them. And beneath that: ‘PASSPORT’.

  I fan the pages daringly, like a gambler shuffling her deck. And now I stop, jam a finger in, open it, my eye caressing the words in italics:

  Her Britannic Majesty’s

  Secretary of State

  Requests and requires in the

  Name of Her Majesty

  all those whom it may concern

  to allow the bearer to pass freely

  without let or hindrance,

  and to afford the bearer

  such assistance and protection

  as may be necessary.

  A hot toddy is spreading through me. Another shuffle and I cut. On this page is an appalling portrait photograph of my face, my thin strawberry-blonde hair, my turquoise eyes. It is, I know, a prerequisite of passports that the photographs of their bearers are uniformly ghastly. I am transfixed by it, as if falling in love with the image at first sight. I dyed my hair to rid it of the encroaching grey, and had it cut shorter for the picture. As if that would improve it! I had two goes as well. Propped on the chair in the tiny curtained booth, I neglected to take off the linen scarf coiled about my neck. In my second sitting, told under no circumstances to smile, my blank expression was inane. There was something of the zombie about the glassy eyes and taut wire mouth. But now as I moon over it, I blink in astonishment, for surely I have more pizzazz than a Bond girl. And adjacent to it the words leap out at me. ‘Surname: Ryan. Given names: Laura. Nationality: British Citizen.’ I crow with exultation, then rifle in my handbag, grab a pen, bend my head to my passport and sign. I fish out my compact, flip it open and regard my reflection.

  Laura Ryan. Laura Ryan. Laura Ryan. That’s who I am. I am not the illegitimate daughter of farm girl, Bethan Haverd and prisoner of war, Thorston Engel. I am not the adopted daughter of Harriet and Merfyn Pritchard, crumbling columns of the temperance movement. I am Henry Ryan’s wife, mother to our two children, grandmother to our granddaughters. I am an artist and an animal lover. I adore the winter for it is stripped to its honest bones. The city is without inspiration for me. My heart will forever be given to the English countryside. And when I die I want my ashes to fall in a flurry of snow like pale butterflies. I want to be carried off on the snowmelt of spring’s nativity. I am Laura Ryan.

  I tidy all my certificates into a shoebox and put it away in the small loft space. I keep the photographs of me close by though. Some I put into an album. But the one of me on the furry donkey by the seaside, in my little white dress, my short white socks, my shiny black shoes, holding on to the reins oh so tightly, this one I have enlarged. It’s in a frame now on the mantelpiece, a frame Tim carved for me from the wholesome wood he salvaged after a previous storm. When I gaze at it, at the flat grey sea in the background, at the people sunning themselves in deckchairs, what I recall is the plush of those big droopy ears, the mossy plush of them filling my tiny hands, and how good they made me feel, how secure.

  Chapter 28

  Laura

  APRIL AND I feel the year rousing itself and stretching. Trees that look bare are cunning. On closer scrutiny they are all busy with buds and sap. The great unstoppable force is on the rise again. It is midmorning and my cheeks are still wind-kissed from a lovely two-hour walk with Lola. We both have our fresh-air faces on. Coffee is brewing, and the glorious fragrance is filling the cottage. The lounge, all of it, is flooded in an apricot radiance. Through the window I can see the pear trees, and a great spotted woodpecker, a vivid splash of red and black and white, hammering at a tree trunk like a miniature pneumatic drill. A CD is playing baroque music. Henry is at work. Spring is clamouring for his attention. Last year, 2002, I visited Tim in Australia, for three whole weeks in the autumn. It was the most incredible journey. The cities so modern and spread out. And the wildlife everywhere. And the ocean that was the turquoise of my eyes, it really was. But I missed Henry and home, and it was good to get back.

  It seems I was not only the one feeling homesick. Tim has arrived back from Australia for good, with a surprise for us. Tonight he is coming to dinner, bringing his new Australian girlfriend for us to meet. I understand that this relationship is serious, so we shall have to be on our best behaviour. I have made chilled salmon, and later this afternoon will prepare a celery and walnut salad, new potatoes with fresh chopped parsley and a lemon meringue pie. But for now I have the promise of a delicious interlude in the day to sort through the family photos.

  I am going to make up an album just for our granddaughters, charting their childhoods. I thought I would add my drawings and paintings of them, my home-made cards, as well as theirs, and the stories and poems they write, pressed flowers, scraps that catch their eye in newspapers and magazines. I want it to be something we can sit and look through together as they grow older, as they grow up. I want to be able to talk through the memories of their childhoods, help Lisa and Jessica to cherish them.

  I am just settling down with my cup of coffee, Lola at my feet crunching on a doggy biscuit, when there is a knock on the front door. I am a little put out at the prospect of unexpected visitors and a delay, or possibly temporary postponement of my planned project. I set down my cup reluctantly. Lola springs up, tail wagging, gho
sting me to the door. Opening it, I see a tall woman in her middle years, her brown hair, greying at the roots, tied back, light make-up, diffident dark-brown eyes. She is smartly dressed in a plum-coloured coat, a scarf knotted stylishly at her neck. She has the appearance of a professional woman, in business selling something perhaps? I have never seen her before in my life.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, her voice tentative. She extends a gloved hand. I take it without thinking and then release it. ‘Hello,’ she says again.

  ‘Hello,’ I answer, like for like, peculiarly not feeling suspicious of this stranger. If anything a mild amusement is creeping over me. She looks lost, in need of reassurance. Lola shoulders past my legs and butts her with the dome of her head.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry. Lola! Come back inside at once.’ Lola ignores me.

  ‘That’s quite all right. I’m used to animals. I grew up on a farm,’ the stranger volunteers, petting Lola and even bobbing down to give her a proper greeting. ‘Lola is it? Hello, Lola. Aren’t you gorgeous?’

  I warm to her immediately. Some people have an instant rapport with animals, and for the most part I am inclined to trust our four-legged friends’ judgement. Generally, they are very discerning. But my coffee is getting cold and there are photographs to sort through. I clear my throat. ‘Can I help you?’ I offer, preparing to give directions to some part of the estate, the offices, the shop, the restaurant.

  She rises to her feet rapidly, looking distinctly embarrassed now. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a bit nervous. I don’t quite know how to –’ She breaks off and adjusts the shoulder strap of her bag. Lola stares up at her quizzically. Then, ‘Are you … are you Lu– Lucilla?’ she stumbles, now seeming decidedly anxious.

  ‘Yes, well, yes, I was … oh, yes, yes, I am Lucilla,’ I tell her all in a rush. And suddenly I have the queerest sensation, as if my life is hurtling backwards, as if the past, my past has come to claim me. I draw in a trembling breath. In a second, my mouth is dry and my heart is beating frantically. ‘Is anything wrong? I’m afraid I don’t know you. What do you want?’ For a long moment, our eyes meet. The pensive look in hers is familiar. I have met it throughout my life – in mirrors. ‘Why … why do you want me?’

  For reply she fumbles in her coat pocket and retrieves two envelopes. She holds them out to me. The handwriting on one of them is Rosemary Dixon’s. On the other it is mine. They are the letters I wrote to my mother, to Bethan Sterry. I give a soft implosive gasp and take a step back.

  ‘Please, please don’t be upset. It’s just that I had to come, that I had to see you. If I wrote, I thought you might not want – My mother … our mother has passed away. I was going through her things … and … and I found –’ Again she jars to a halt. She takes a few deep, steadying breaths. We stare at each other. When she next speaks it is slowly, with assurance, and something else, something that makes my heart judder inside me. ‘I am Lowrie, Lowrie Sterry. And I think, I think I’m your sister,’ she says.

  My sincere thanks to my inspirational publisher and editor, Gillian Green, and to my lovely publicist, Hannah Robinson, and to all the production team at Ebury Books.

  My especial thanks also to my wonderful agent Judith Murdoch.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Published in 2012 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

  A Random House Group Company

  Copyright © 2012 Anne Berry

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Anne Berry has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  HB ISBN 9780091949273

  TPB ISBN 9780091947040

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