‘Two terms, then couldn’t afford any more,’ he said matter of factly.
‘No way am I going.’
‘Well you should,’ he said, looking her straight in the eye. His mouth had a vulnerable cast to it. ‘You’re clever.’
He stroked her softly, reaching just above the knee, and refused to go further despite her urging. ‘You’re not old enough, missis,’ he always said.
She had found her husband too young, she considered reasonably; but that could be overcome, and they were likely to have a baby soon. On some nights now he was inching up her forearms to her elbow; on other nights, he merely curled up against her and they held each other, murmuring and lazily laughing into the night, and kissed necks and chins as they fell asleep.
Dora’s cottage was cold even after the warmth of the day. The slight dip in which it was built – a workers’ afterthought to service the main house – was, when the light went, a chilled pool, lightly rank, its mosses and rich-earthed succulents overgrown and clinging to the walls.
That evening, Dora sat at her table and watched her daughter, and perceived how over-stressed or burdened she was. She saw the Irish Bannans in her, in the brown eyes, the country colouring beneath the later sophistication. She was reactive and alert, emotion transparent on her face and a barely perceptible trace of freckles across her nose, so strongly reminiscent of girlhood, suddenly visible in the light of a candle that burnt near her. Dora had noticed that she had been wearing make-up more often in the day. Her eyebrows were darker, more emphatic lines, contrasting in repose with the faint look of sadness to her eyes.
‘You need some sleep,’ said Dora.
Cecilia smiled, and shook her head.
She built up the fire. ‘Izzie can bring you logs,’ she murmured. ‘This horrible radiotherapy. It’s hard.’
Dora hesitated. ‘It’s just tiring,’ she said.
‘Poor you, that you had to go through this,’ said Cecilia, her voice unsteady, and hugged her.
She sat down and filled Dora’s glass.
‘Ooh! Enough!’ said Dora, causing Cecilia, despite all her pity, to cringe internally with the primal irritation that could be precipitated by every intake of breath, every tonal variation, every moment of generational behaviour betrayed. She stopped herself. She took a gulp of wine, and took another, only alcohol enabling her to dare to confront her mother this evening.
‘You know I’ve protected you,’ she said then. ‘For a long time.’
‘Cecilia.’
‘You know I absolutely blame myself as much as you. More so, much more.’ Her voice was unsteady again. ‘But you . . . I . . . I think you need to search your memory now and tell me something. Please.’
Dora paused. She tipped back her wine. Her lower lip trembled. ‘Is that a threat?’ she said eventually.
‘No. No. Please. Dora. I need to know.’
‘You do, don’t you?’ said Dora. She fiddled with an old enamel ladybird in a bowl.
‘Yes,’ said Cecilia, her heart speeding at the subtle change of gear she detected. She would not pull back, she pledged. However much Dora filled her with guilt, with duty, with fear even, she would push ahead.
Dora poured more wine into her glass, spilling a sizeable portion on to the table. ‘It has to do with that time,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Nothing,’ her lip trembled, ‘nothing was very formal. Do you remember what it was really like?’
‘Hippies lining the loft, signing on under three identities, growing ten acres of dope, then getting grants for tinpot courses at Torquay Tech they never attended, you mean?’ said Cecilia, still becoming heated even after all these years.
Dora’s mouth twitched. ‘Yes. But seriously. Do you remember? Farmer Hillier’s child wasn’t his, for instance. That boy Timothy was his nephew.’
‘Really?’ said Cecilia.
‘Brought up as his son. Inherited the farm. Everyone knew; no one really commented after a while. It was moorland law. Our own laws, wild, cut off down lanes.’
‘Oh –’ said Cecilia.
‘Yes. You know. People living outside the state in converted cowsheds; wood dwellers, putting up log buildings illegally. And many people around Wedstone had that system of bartering with their own currency instead of tax –’
‘Five acorns equals a back rub,’ said Cecilia impatiently.
‘I know you’ve always scorned these country ways. Well. Anyway. Now there’s a sense of this area being discovered, and known to Londoners – known about, more expensive, desirable. Second homes. Restaurants in Ashburton. It wasn’t like that then, Celie darling. You know that. You could have these big crumbling manors with not so much money, and live off your . . . your ideals, making do. There wasn’t a sense of the state being after you, if you like, then. So – so –’ said Dora, her voice faltering, ‘when – when your baby went to another home, it wasn’t such a strange thing.’
‘ “Strange thing” . . . ?’
‘Oh Celie, you do intimidate me.’
‘I realise,’ said Cecilia sombrely. She shook her head.
Dora paused. Her chest rose.
‘So it was all rather informal.’
Cecilia swallowed. There was silence.
‘But what about the birth certificate?’ said Cecilia. ‘That’s what the adoption support agent I spoke to asked immediately. Where was the baby registered?’
‘They must have – arranged that.’
‘Faked it, you mean. Took my baby, said they gave birth at home, and got her registered as theirs. Or that fucking hippie midwife who kept running in and out signed the documents for the birth certificate under their name. Did she?’
Dora shook her head, her mouth thinning, the old glitter of tears that had silenced Cecilia for so many years coating her eyes.
Cecilia stiffened. She breathed deeply. She gazed at the ceiling. ‘And you know what’s odd,’ she said slowly. ‘This “friend of Patrick’s” you said you arranged it through – after you said the baby went to a “contact”, that is – though odd how I could never find any trace in Ashburton. Well, I don’t recall many friends of Dad’s at all. My Irish uncles couldn’t remember this person either. Where did this “friend” live?’
‘Nearby,’ said Dora stiffly. ‘And – Ireland.’
‘What was his name?’
‘– Aiden.’
There was a brief silence.
‘You said Padraig before,’ said Cecilia.
She hesitated. ‘How could I?’
‘You did. I remembered, very clearly. I wouldn’t forget that anyway. But I particularly noticed because he had the same name as Patrick,’ said Cecilia rapidly.
‘I – I –’ said Dora, her mouth goldfishing in repeated circles. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I just don’t know, I don’t know.’
Cecilia was silent. She breathed slowly.
‘You don’t know?’ she said eventually to Dora, who had her face in her hands.
‘I don’t know,’ said Dora.
‘So you lied to me.’
‘I didn’t.’
Dora sank on to the sofa and then lay against the cushions and pressed her face into them. Cecilia felt her heart plunge with pity. She began to rise, to throw her arms round Dora, to appease her, to withdraw. Forcibly, she stopped herself.
‘Celie, I can’t cope.’
‘You never could, Mummy. That’s what kept me away, kept me from asking. I called you Mummy. Why did I do that? You can never cope. That’s what you always say. That’s what silences me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dora’s face was pressed into the sofa, her voice staggered snuffles.
‘Who took the baby?’
‘I think I gave you the wrong impression.’
‘Who?’
‘I – I – I don’t know.’
‘Then I’ll initiate a missing person inquiry.’
‘Oh Celie, you wouldn’t do that,’ said Dora, exhaling with a whistling sound.
‘I wouldn’t have before, but you’ve left me – you’ve left me nothing else I can do. And really.’ She looked around wildly. ‘Why shouldn’t I do that? Izzie’s almost sixteen. After that she can choose, and – and she’ll live with me. There’s not that particular threat over me any more. Even if you’re in the middle of radiotherapy, you can tell me . . .’
‘I’m ill. I can’t –’
‘Then tell me.’
‘I –’
‘You can.’
‘Well there was –’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know how to – Celie,’ said Dora, swallowing clumsily.
‘Tell me,’ said Cecilia, looking straight at Dora. ‘Tell me, please.’
‘There was – were, was; which do you say? – a couple.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’ Dora sat up. She sounded mildly drunk. Her hair was pushed into a new position from lying down. Deliberately, Cecilia filled her glass.
Dora was silent. ‘It was urgent.’ She spoke in a croak.
‘Why?’
‘Because we – I – didn’t want you to bond with the baby. If you had decided to give it up, I thought it was better for you that it was immediate, or it would break your heart.’
‘It did break my heart.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you have to stick your chin out? You look so obstinate. So hard –’
‘Oh Celie. I’m not; I’m not . . . Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am. Why did this happen?’ said Dora, mildly slurring.
‘So you took her immediately. But instead of an approved adoption . . .’
‘I just didn’t want to go through the formal channels and find some unknown couple,’ said Dora, breathing in broken gusts. ‘Random, unknown. And these two. They were there all along.’
‘There all along? Waiting for my baby?’ said Cecilia loudly.
‘Well they – they were involved with it. The woman was a midwife, you see, darling. A – a community midwife. She couldn’t – couldn’t conceive,’ she said, swallowing. Her hair was wilder. ‘I just couldn’t stand the idea of you having to go to hospital, and then some official coming along. I don’t think you could have stood it –’
‘It would have given me a chance to realise my mistake,’ said Cecilia. She felt the blood drain from her face.
‘But the parents could have been anyone. Vetted, but a risk. Anyone. Whereas I knew – them. It all seemed more – homely.’
‘Who? Who were they?’ said Cecilia rapidly.
‘I told you. They lived here.’
‘Here. Here in this house?’ She pulled a cup towards her suddenly, pushed it back.
‘Yes.’
‘What?’ Cecilia groaned. ‘What were their names?’
Dora hesitated. She took more wine. A large amount spilled on the table and spread. ‘Moll and Flite.’
‘Moll and Flite? What?’
‘Don’t you remember them?’
Cecilia paused. Her eyes searched the ceiling, as though scanning the past.
‘No,’ she said in a small voice.
‘He had a black beard. No – with no moustache. She . . . Well, she was brown-skinned, from the weather. Always outside. She was – big. Wore long skirts, layers of them. Do you remember?’
‘You gave my child to –’
Dora bowed her head. ‘Do you remember them?’
‘There were so many.’
‘And always passing through,’ said Dora, nodding.
‘I don’t remember,’ said Cecilia, breathing slowly to quell the nausea. ‘Moll and Flite?’ she said in a monotone.
‘Yes.’
‘What were their real names?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know?’
‘I never thought about it. Well,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I’ve never known.’
‘What was their surname?’
‘Jones,’ said Dora quietly.
‘Oh God. Didn’t she have a different name?’
‘They both went by Jones as far as I know. Women did in those days,’ said Dora faintly defensively. ‘Even . . . alternative ones; alternative livers. Oh you know what I mean.’
‘Moll and Flite?’ she said again in disbelief.
‘Yes. Flite was a gentle soul.’
‘They all were. Gentle. Filthy useless workshy morons. You gave my baby to one of those?’ Cecilia’s voice began to rise. She caught her breath unevenly.
‘They were a nice couple. They wanted a child very badly, and there you were – You, you, my poor love. You were so young. You shouldn’t have been pregnant at that age. You forget that.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’
‘How? You wouldn’t speak to me for years.’
‘You didn’t exactly try.’
‘We’re not the same as you. Your generation. I find it – hard to speak about things, Cecilia. Ask Diana. Beatrice was the same.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before? You knew how desperate I was.’
‘Oh Celie.’ Dora paused, sighed.
Cecilia sent the bowl in front of her spinning across the table. It fell on to the floor, and failed to break.
‘You’re very difficult when you’re like this,’ said Dora.
‘What did this “Flite” do for a living?’ she said, turning back to her, a look of disgust stiffening her face.
‘He gardened. Gardener, really. She was a midwife –’
‘Was she that midwife?’
‘That midwife?’
‘Oh you know who I mean.’
‘Cecilia –’
‘That dirty-haired bitch who was around when I was having my baby. Christ, I think I remember her. Remember her smell or something. I don’t remember her face. Christ, Christ. You must have been out of your mind. So you let that woman pull my baby out of me and take her?’
Dora shook her head, nodded, her eyes glazed.
‘You are insane. Off your head!’
‘Celie . . .’
Cecilia looked at her. She laughed with a small hiss of air. ‘There’s little I can believe any more.’ She slapped her hand down. ‘Where are they now?’ she said abruptly.
‘I really honestly have no idea, darling,’ said Dora, sounding drunk. ‘No idea. No idea. I’m sorry. I looked for them over the years. I still ask the odd – person who comes by, who might have known them. A few people saw them occasionally –’
‘Where?’
‘At – fairs. Or just around. It seems they went to Wales and then abroad. I looked.’
‘You gave my baby to a couple of infertile old drifters renting this cottage and then let them –’
‘They were very, very gentle, loving. I had no doubts they would nurture a baby well, darling.’
‘And you didn’t keep in touch, didn’t have any address? Where did they go?’
‘They gave me an address, darling. But – but – I thought it was best. A clean break. I wrote to them there – Wales, Pembrokeshire – and they’d long gone. I knew you’d be angry,’ said Dora weakly.
‘Angry?’ said Cecilia, her mouth open. ‘I can –’ She shook her head. ‘I can barely – I can barely articulate – This is monstrous.’
Dora recoiled.
‘My child. Your granddaughter. You – I cannot believe this. Dora. What did you do to me – to her? Did you hate me? Was the child not good enough? Not good enough for you? She was, she was perfect. I remember. I remember that lovely face. Little cheeks, face. I saw her. Why did I agree to anything? Why did I agree?’
‘I knew I shouldn’t tell you. I knew I shouldn’t,’ said Dora, biting her lips and shaking her head hard. ‘I always knew – I can’t – can’t lose the girls.’
‘Good God. You expect – what now? How could you have done that in front of me, under my nose? Cooked it all up with them?’
‘I thought it was best for you.’
‘For you.’
‘For you.’
‘Well, you’re always goin
g to deny everything,’ said Cecilia. She hit the top of the table. ‘I’m going to look for them. Give me everything you’ve got. Now. Now.’
‘I have nothing, Celie,’ said Dora weakly. ‘Really, darling. I – I looked.’
‘Well I will look. “Moll and Flite”. How fucking ridiculous. What were the names on their cheques?’
‘Oh darling, they always paid cash –’
‘– Cash,’ said Cecilia at the same time. ‘Of course they did. If you were lucky. Or they paid in quiche and childminding. My child. My child.’
Dora clamped her mouth shut. ‘I can’t tell you any more,’ she said. ‘I looked for them. For – you. I didn’t think it was the best thing for you, but – But I looked for them.’
‘Why?’
‘Because how could I not? Given your reaction.’
Cecilia said nothing.
‘Oh this is a terrible mess really,’ said Dora. She sounded slurred. ‘I knew – always. I knew I should keep it as it was.’
‘Where is she?’
‘There’s nothing more to say,’ said Dora, her hand wiping her eyes, her mouth.
‘I’m asking you once more,’ said Cecilia.
Dora was silent. Her chest rose and fell.
‘That’s it,’ said Cecilia, reaching for the door.
She went to the house and threw herself on the bed. The pillow smelled of Ari. ‘Why aren’t you here?’ she said, thumping it, and she picked up the phone. ‘Ari,’ she said, sobbing into Ari’s voicemail. ‘Oh why aren’t you there? I need you – Need to talk – Oh God. Call me.’
She put the phone down, glanced at her alarm clock, pressed her eyes to her pillow until she saw slow starbursts, owlish irises staring back at her in the darkness, and rang James Dahl’s mobile. After several rings, he answered.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Cecilia in muted tones, fighting tears. ‘It’s too late?’
‘No.’
‘I – I – I need you. I want to talk to you –’
‘Of course –’
‘Dora told me things about the baby. I need you.’
‘I’ll drive out.’
‘Oh no – Can you?’
‘I can’t really talk now,’ he said steadily. ‘I’ll see you in about – forty minutes.’
Cecilia paused, her chin dropping to her chest as she stood there. ‘Yes. Can you? Yes.’
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