by Shea, Alan
As I get closer I can see that her eyes are shut. I stop. She looks thinner. Her face is white. Dark shadows underline her eyes, half-moons of tiredness.
The window by her bed is open. A breeze breathes gently in, rearranging the curtains. Mrs Gilbey hushes me with a finger on her lips. On cue, Mum’s eyes flicker open. She smiles.
‘Hello, love. How are you?’ She reaches forward to kiss me. ‘Let’s have a look at you. My, you’ve grown.’
I get embarrassed. ‘Come off it, Mum. You only saw me three weeks ago.’
‘Proper little beauty, isn’t she, Emma?’
Mrs Gilbey smiles. Nods. I go red.
‘Thanks for bringin’ her.’ She holds out her hand to me. I take it. Sit by the bed.
Mrs Gilbey says, ‘I’ll put these in water, Mary.’
Mum sees the flowers. Yellow and white. An armful of sun. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have. They’re lovely. Cheer the place up.’
Mrs Gilbey goes off in search of a vase and water.
Mum asks the usual questions about school, about me. I feel nervous. Talk too much. I always do when I’m nervous. One of the nurses gives me a look on the way to another patient. Then another on the way back. I stop talking. It suddenly occurs to me that Mrs Gilbey has been gone a long time. Mum moves to sit up. I help her plump up her pillows.
‘Thanks, love.’ She looks at me. ‘Alice . . .’ Stops. Can’t make up her mind about something. ‘I asked Mrs Gilbey to fetch you in for a reason.’ Then, as if she didn’t mean it to come out like that, ‘I wanted to see you, of course, but there is something else. Something important I need to tell you.’ She pats the bed. ‘Come and sit closer.’
I do. She strokes my hand.
‘Dad wanted me to tell you as soon as I found out I was expecting, but you know how things are. So much to do. Time just runs away with you.’ She grins ruefully. ‘Thing is, I thought I’d have time. Didn’t expect to end up in here. Still, a bit of high blood pressure isn’t the end of the world, is it?’
I feel like I’m waiting for something to happen. It’s a feeling I don’t like. She goes on stroking my hand.
‘Then I was going to tell you just before I came in, but that was all a bit of a panic, wasn’t it? Still, no excuses. I should have done it before now.’
She’s making me feel worried.
‘What is it, Mum? Is something wrong?’
‘No, nothing’s wrong. I’m a bit tired, but that’s to be expected.’
Her fingers pick at the edges of the sheet. She fidgets. Doesn’t seem to be comfortable. I wonder if my weight on the bed is getting too heavy for her.
‘D’you want me to move?’
‘No, you’re all right. This all took us a bit by surprise, you know. Expect you noticed that.’
She goes quiet. ‘The thing is, I was told a long time ago . . .’
She says the words slowly as if I’m doing some exam and she’s giving me clues to the answers. ‘A long time ago, I had to have an op . . . I was nineteen. Always wanted a big family.’ She looks away. ‘I got ill, went to see a doctor. I had to go into hospital. They fixed me up all right, but told me that I couldn’t have children; that I’d never be able to have a child.’
She stops, as if I should have understood the clues. Passed the exam.
‘I was devastated, love. Good word that, devastated, like an end of the world word, ain’t it.’
She smiles but it’s not a real smile, it’s a tired, sad smile.
‘When I came out of hospital an old aunt who lived in the country said I could go and stay with her until I got a bit stronger. Kent it was, by the hop fields. Beautiful after all the bombing in London. So quiet and peaceful. And in the next village was an orphanage. Couldn’t believe it. There I was next door to all those poor mites. It was then that I had the idea. If I couldn’t have kids of my own then I‘d work with them, help look after them.’
I feel her hand squeeze mine tightly. Mrs Gilbey has been gone too long.
‘I did really well. I was a natural, the matron said, all the kids loved me. So I decided to stay and make a life for myself there. That was me all done and dusted, life planned out, or so I thought.’ She stops. Starts talking quickly like she’s nervous.
‘Then one day they brought you in. You were such a lovely little thing. Red hair, big blue eyes and so cheeky. You’d been caught up in a bombing raid in London. The house was smashed to pieces, but they found you still alive. Took you to a hospital in London to patch you up, then down to us. State you were in, love; still had bruises like dinner plates – and cry – I never heard anything like it. You could have screamed for England, I can tell you. No one could get you to stop, except me. We just took to each other I suppose. Ended up I was the only one you would go to. Knew your own mind even then, you did. After a while I had this idea. I had a chat with Matron; real nice she was. Said it was against the rules as long as I worked at the orphanage, but things were still so bad, with people being bombed out of their houses, getting killed in the air raids or away fighting, that what rules there were no one took a lot of notice of.’
I can hear every word that she’s saying, but they have no meaning. It’s as if there’s a dam between us and the words are building up like water on her side.
‘Are you listening, Alice?’
I nod.
‘D’you see what I’m saying, love? D’you understand?’
She waits for me to react. I don’t.
‘I had to leave, but that didn’t matter. We were together. I came back to London after the war and tried to start a new life for both of us. Wasn’t easy; money was short. I was near to my wits’ end at times. But we were together and that’s all that mattered.
‘We struggled on for a few years until I met your dad. D’you remember that day? You were still only a little tot – about four – and animal mad! I had gone into the shop in Burdett Road; you stayed to stroke some old dog. When I came out there was this man talking to you. Think you were a bit scared, not used to men, but he seemed nice enough. I thought no more of it, but a few weeks later we were in the park, and blow me down, there he was again. He said it was fate. Like it was meant to be. We got chatting, one thing led to another . . .
‘I thought it would be good for you to have a dad: someone you could look up to. Someone to look after you. I know things ain’t that good between you and him at the moment, but it wasn’t always like it, was it?’
Her face brightens.
‘Here, d’you remember that time when he hid those pennies around the house, then made up the story about buried treasure? You were just a tot then. Really good story it was. Then he drew you that map and you had to find the treasure. Your face lit up when you found them pennies. It was a picture.’
The smile goes from her face and it’s like it’s going from inside her as well.
‘I don’t know why it all changed. Why did it all have to change?’
Her words trail off. There’s a long silence. All I can hear is the ticking of a clock that I can’t see. She tries to talk. Spaces get in the way of her words; words that don’t want to be said.
‘I never wanted to tell you any of this, love. I thought it would make our family . . . less real. Dad wasn’t happy about that. He said that now the baby was coming you’d have to know that you weren’t my real child . . .’
She looks at her hands, screws them together.
She stops. Words trail into silence. There are no words in the world to finish a sentence that starts like that. It’s like someone has just stolen part of my life. Told me I’m not me any more. I’m a lie. I don’t belong to anyone. I’m floundering in thoughts. Struggling with questions. ‘But what about my dad – my real dad? And who is my real mum?’
Mum doesn’t look at me. She’s picking at the bedclothes.
‘I’m sorry, love. There’s something else you have to know. When they found you in the ruins of that house there were no other survivors. Your mum . . .’ She stops, stares at the li
mp curtains by the bed. ‘Your real mum and dad must have been killed.’
I look around. I just want to get out. Suddenly the air is choking me. The walls are growing, towering over me. I’m a dot. A speck of dust in the room. The voices around me telescope into a whisper. Still the walls grow. Throbbing. Words drown me.
‘. . . but I love you, I love you like you’re my own flesh and blood. Don’t you ever forget that. I’ll always love you like you was my child.’
Everything stops. Nothing moves. The curtain sways and is still. The pounding in my ears stops. I look at my mum as if for the first time. Look at her but see someone who isn’t my mum. I watch as two tears fill the edges of her eyes, then brim over.
I hear myself. I hear a voice I don’t recognize as mine. A still, small voice.
‘But I thought . . . I thought I was your child, Mum.’
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I know it’s Mrs Gilbey.
‘Are you all right, Alice?’ she says quietly.
I can’t talk. There’s only one thing I can think of doing. She tries to stop me but can’t. Nobody could. I push past her.
I’m running. Through the warren of corridors leading to more corridors. Through doors opening out on to more doors. Going on for ever. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care. I run like the wind. I run like an animal fleeing from a predator. Like in a nightmare. Running. Running to get away from danger. I hear Mum call me.
‘Alice, wait. There’s something else, something you’ve got to have. It’s important. Alice, wait.’
But I’m waiting for no one.
19
If ifs and ands were pots and pans
It drops through the letter box while I’m trying to eat some toast. Don’t feel much like eating. An envelope with my name on it, but no stamp. I look at it. Feel . . . I can’t really explain how I feel any more. It’s like another life is growing around me, covering up the life I had. I’m the butterfly going back into the chrysalis. Everything seems the wrong way round.
I put the toast down. Pick up the envelope. I recognize Mrs Gilbey’s handwriting straight away. I glance up at the old clock. Quickly start to put on my coat as I make my way out. I mustn’t be late for school again. Try to eat my toast while putting my coat on. Not one of my best ideas. Get margarine everywhere.
I start to read the note walking along. Not even a note really, just a few scribbled lines saying how there’s something inside the envelope that Mum had wanted to give to me the other day. I start to feel nervous, my fingers tremble. It’s like the story my mum was telling me still isn’t over.
I shake the envelope. Something falls out into my hand. It’s a bit of a photograph. Been torn in half. It’s shadowy. Bit out of focus. Looks like a man holding a baby. One arm cradles the baby and the other seems to be going around someone’s shoulder. A woman, I think, but whoever she is she’s not in my half of the photo, so I can’t tell for sure. I look back at the note, puzzled.
‘. . . I know you were upset, Alice, but your mum was only doing what she thought was best. Try to remember that. Anyway, she thought it was also time you had this. Apparently it was found in that old biscuit tin of yours. Remarkable, isn’t it? It was right by you when they found you.
‘The photo looks like it’s been taken in a garden; you can see some trees and the house in the background. It’s a bit gloomy though, I had to get my magnifying glass. Your mum said they thought the baby must be you, so maybe the man holding you is your real dad. Wish we had the other half; that would make things a bit clearer. Your mum says no one knows who took it or how it got torn or where the other half of it is. Strange it was left in your old tin though.’
I look at the face of the little girl. She doesn’t look much like me, but then babies change. Grow up. She’s got a fat face, a little bonnet falls half over it. It makes me smile.
Mrs Gilbey’s right. It is a garden and there are trees: that’s what’s making the photo dark. Casting shadows. I try to see who it is who’s holding me. A ragged tear rips through the figure, but through the shadows I can just see the man’s face. He’s looking down at me and he’s smiling.
For just a second I get that feeling; the feather touching my face feeling. Which is strange because as far as I know I’m not in trouble. I sigh. Put the photo back in my pocket for safety. Another problem I can’t solve. Another mystery I’ll never get to the bottom of. I make my way to school.
I’m trying to concentrate on the writing on the board, but I can’t. The numbers jumble themselves up before my eyes. I try to do the sums but my thoughts scatter. Miss Lacey comes up to me in class and whispers in my ear. Sister Vincent wants to see me. She’s never asked to see me before. I think she must know.
I make my way out of the classroom, feeling as if everybody is looking at me. As if they all know that I’m adopted. That I have no real mum or dad. I go down the stairs and into the corridor. Her room is on the left-hand side, just before the door that leads to the playground. The door is half open. I knock.
‘Come in.’
It’s a cross between a big cupboard and a small room. Untidy. Stacks of papers, piles of plimsolls, paperweights and potted plants. A filing cabinet is shoehorned into a corner. There’s no window. A light is on.
Sister Vincent is tall. Fills the room. She’s writing with a fountain pen. She has a kind face. Looks up as if she has forgotten who I am, or why she sent for me. She stops writing and carefully puts the top on the pen. That’s the way I would do it if I had a fountain pen – thoughtfully, as if I were screwing up wonderful ideas. Storing them in the pen case until I’m next ready to use them.
She shuffles the papers together. ‘Ah, Alice, come in.’ She points to the chair.’
She looks unsure. Waits until I’m sitting down. Then says, ‘I had a lady in to see me yesterday, a Mrs Gilbey. She lives quite close to you, I believe.’
She stops, as if giving me a space to say something, like I should say something, but I’m learning not to fill those spaces.
‘She tells me things have been difficult for you for a while now.’ She reads the look in my eyes, ‘It’s all right, Alice. She wouldn’t say exactly what the problem was . . .’ She gives a little, uncertain smile. It plays around the corners of her mouth. Cat and mouse.
It dawns on me why I’m here. She wants me to tell her myself. She is nice and kind, but I don’t want to say anything to her. Not here. Not now. In some ways I wish I could.
‘. . . I just thought maybe you . . .’
I stay silent. Mouse escapes. Cat vexed.
‘It’s important that we know these things, you know. If there are problems at home . . .’
Relents.
‘Anyway, I know your mother is in hospital and Mrs Gilbey was worried that you would be . . .’ again the pause ‘. . . all right?’
‘I’ll be fine, Sister.’
‘Are you sure, my dear?’
I’m not really sure if I’m sure of anything any more. I look at my feet. Funny how you do that when you don’t know what to say. Look at your feet, as if they know something you don’t.
Sister Vincent waits. I shuffle. She gives a long sigh. ‘Ah, well. So be it. You are in our prayers. I thought you should know that.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. Be glad to get out.
‘God bless you, child. How is your mother, by the way?’
I want to say, ‘I don’t know who my mother is, Sister.’ I say, ‘Fine, thank you.’
She turns back to her papers. Picks up her pen. Just as I’m about to leave she says, ‘Sister Bernadette tells me that your play is going well.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
‘It’s an interesting story.’ She smiles. ‘Very interesting. Where did you get the idea from?’
‘I don’t know, Sister.’ Never really thought about it before.
‘Off you go then, Alice. We’ll remember you all in our prayers.’
When the bell g
oes for the end of the day I walk out into the front playground. Summer’s a tease. Hot one minute, cold the next. A grey sky falls on me. Sits half an inch above my head, pressing down, squashing out the light.
I walk home not really noticing anything. My feelings are so mixed up. I still love my mum, but she isn’t my mum. Does that make any difference? I have half a photograph and half a life. I’m a bit scared, but deep down I know I have to find out what’s going on. Why is it that Reggie turns up and all this stuff starts? If he is telling the truth, what’s happening to the two of us and why?
The questions jumble in my head so that there’s no room for anything else. I have no way of answering any of them. I don’t even know where to start. Suddenly I’m almost home. I turn the corner.
Reggie’s sitting on the pavement outside our flats. He sees me and waves. Flash is beside him, his chin resting on the ground.
I wave back. I wonder how long he’s been sitting there. He gets up. Funny, me and Reggie. We seem to go round in circles, never quite touching each other. Musical-chairs friendship, with one chair and music that never stops. Round and round. Flash gets up, yawns and stretches; rolls over for a tickle.
Reggie smiles. ‘C-coming out?’
I nod. Do my best to smile back. Best isn’t good enough. My voice sounds hard. ‘I am out.’
He looks hurt. ‘Yes. S-silly question.’
I feel sorry. It’s not his fault.
So, I say it. ‘Sorry.’
‘What f-for?’
‘For what I said last time.’
‘Yes, so am I.’
‘What you sorry for?’
Gets his own back. ‘For what you s-said last time.’ He grins. ‘Even if I can’t remember what it was.’
‘I called you a liar. Think I might have said bloody liar.’
‘That’s a double apology, then.’
‘Don’t push your luck, mate.’
He grins. I realize I’m hungry. ‘I’ll just get a piece of bread and jam. Want some?’
