by Louise Beech
Bernadette hasn’t chosen a bedroom; it isn’t for her to decide. Anyway, she doesn’t mind which view she has. She only knows that neither room will be painted daffodil-yellow like the nursery at Tower Rise.
Back downstairs Bernadette stands for a while watching snow blow against the kitchen window, then fly off like dandelion seeds seeking new soil. Bernadette’s parents came with her for the second viewing. Her dad nodded, silently confirming his approval; her mum opened cupboards and said it was much cosier than Tower Rise.
‘Include us more,’ she added, without judgment, just kindly. ‘I know you’ve always been a loner – I used to say to my mum, little Bernadette, like a closed book, she is. What is it they call the boy Conor’s book? A Lifebook. Well, yours is closed. Open it now and again. Let us see your life.’
Bernadette nodded, promised she would. She had visited for a weekend to tell them about Conor. She spent time with her father in his greenhouse, with her mother in the kitchen, and with them both in the conservatory as the sun set over the distant church spire. It was such a long story, one that made Bernadette cry as she spoke. Both parents said they would get to know Conor, that she mustn’t think she had to protect them from everything.
‘You know what it’s like to be just one child,’ her dad said in a rare gush of words. ‘You’ll understand each other.’
Rumbling wheels and screeching breaks outside draw Bernadette to the front window. Her things – the few items she selected to come here. She had to let a lot go because the flat was bigger than this two-up-two-down cottage. So she brought what was essential and what she loved: the table, her bed, one sofa, the bookshelf, pots and pans and crockery, books, pictures, and other mementoes.
Two men bring the boxes and furniture into the living room, stamping snow off their feet and asking where she wants things. For now, she asks them to put the bed in the back room – she can move it if needed. The rest she shuffles into half-decided positions, before finding the kettle and making tea.
Grace Bryan, the social worker dealing with the adoption, said the house was ideal. Less isolated than Tower Rise and not damp or draughty, she confirmed that it had all the space necessary, was in good proximity to school and friends, and that the garden was perfect and the area low on crime.
Bernadette sits and opens the box labelled PERSONAL STUFF. Inside, on top, is a handful of Conor’s artwork. There are sketches of Muhammad Ali and Anne and Sophie and Frances. There are coloured pictures of her and Richard and Sam and George. She finds drawing pins at the bottom and tacks the papers to a corkboard in the kitchen. All her people, shaded in light and dark, flaws subtle, beauty emphasised, stare back at her.
There’s just one face missing.
A soft knock on the front door, and Bernadette smiles. She opens it on the missing face, the artist – Conor. He’s wrapped up warmly in a quilted jacket and bramble-purple scarf, his cheeks and nose pink. Anne follows down the path with a bunch of equally colourful flowers.
‘It’s like one of those olden-day houses,’ says Conor.
‘Come and see inside,’ says Bernadette.
He runs straight upstairs. Anne hugs Bernadette and says, ‘He was up at five this morning. Couldn’t wait to see your “not haunted” house. I haven’t told him the rest.’
Bernadette puts the flowers in the sink and runs cold water over their stems. ‘Grace said he can come and stay here once I’m settled in. I can apply for the court order once he’s lived with me for at least ten weeks. Then it’ll be official.’ Bernadette pauses, studies Anne’s face. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? He’s lived with you so long. I’m so happy, but when I imagine how sad you must be…’
Anne shakes her head vigorously. ‘No, you mustn’t think that way! I knew I was only having Conor until he found his true home. And now he has.’
They hear footsteps above them, back and forth, back and forth. Bernadette goes upstairs and finds Conor on the landing, grinning, his scarf in a snakelike curl on the wooden floor.
‘Which bedroom would you pick if you could?’ Bernadette asks him.
‘Is it a game?’ he wants to know.
‘No, it’s for real. If you stayed here, where would you sleep?’
Conor goes straight to the front. ‘In here of course,’ he says. ‘There’s more sun. And I can spy on that school and the kids at the shops.’ He pauses. ‘Do you mean like a sleepover?’
‘Would you want to stay here longer than that?’ Bernadette asks.
It’s the first time she has actually asked him. She didn’t want to talk about it at all until everything looked certain and Grace agreed. He’s had enough let-downs. She feels sick – he might not actually want to be with her.
‘Longer?’ he asks.
‘Live here,’ says Bernadette carefully.
‘Like, not at Anne’s?’ He stands in the sunlit window and purses his lip. ‘I suppose you are my step-mum and all that. Would Anne mind?’
‘No, she’d be happy for you.’
‘Can Sophie come over?’
‘Yes.’
‘And my mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Kayleigh and Sam?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you promise me Anne doesn’t mind? She won’t be sad? I can’t go if it’ll make her sad.’
‘I promise,’ says Bernadette. ‘She’s excited about it. She wants you to go where you’ll be happiest.’
Conor smiles. ‘Well, yeah, totally then.’
Bernadette goes and stands next to him. She recalls their chat on the wall at Anne’s house, about scientists looking for the smallest thing in the universe; how Conor had explained that the centre of the universe was everywhere.
Perfectly in tune with her thoughts, Conor tugs on Bernadette’s arm and says, ‘This will be the centre of the universe if I live here because I’ll see everything from this window. I’ll be in the centre. And you’ll be there too.’ He grins and pauses. ‘And Muhammad Ali of course.’
64
The Book
9th May 2013
Dear Conor,
I want to write a last note here. Since Bernadette has applied for an adoption order this week I’ll hand your Lifebook to her so she can give it to you when she wishes, which she said will be on your eighteenth birthday. Once a child finds a permanent home we no longer need to record their life since they will get the background info they need from their parent or parents.
I’m delighted that you have found a home, especially when it has such special significance. Bernadette assured me that she’ll encourage you to continue seeing your birth mum, which Frances is happy about. Also your long-term foster carer, Anne, is a good friend and will stay in your life.
You will see your siblings regularly. Your brother Sam has been seeing more of your mum and there’s hope that he will live with her sometime later this year. She is doing much better and we feel that, with continued support and the changes she is making to her life, she can look after Sam fulltime as well as Kayleigh.
All that really remains for me to do is to wish you well in the future, and I know those good wishes come also from all the social workers, carers and support workers who have got to know you and been part of writing in this book. I hope one day it helps you put together your history, everything before now that has led to me being able to stick just one more document in here (see below).
All best regards,
Yvonne Jones (Social Worker)
Application for an Adoption Order
Section 46 Adoption and Children Act 2002
I/We the undersigned BERNADETTE KATHLEEN SHAW
wish to adopt CONOR JORDAN
and give the following details in support of my/our application
I/We want my/our identity to be kept confidential and wish to apply for a serial number YES NO
Domicile and residence
I am domiciled in the United Kingdom, Channel Islands or Isle of Man.
Status
I am the par
tner of the child’s FATHER MOTHER
I am not married/do not have a civil partner.
I am a widow.
About the child
The child is a BOY GIRL
The child was born on 10/11/2001
The child has had his/her home with me/us continuously since 23/02/2013
I/we have notified in writing my/our local authority of my/our intention to apply for an adoption order (see details)
Parent/guardian consent to adoption
The child’s parent(s)/guardian(s) has/have consented to the making of an adoption order.
Child’s name on the adoption order
If the adoption order is made I/we want the child to be known as CONOR RICHARD JORDAN
Statement of truth
I believe that the facts stated in this application are true Signature of applicant
Bernadette Kathleen Shaw
65
Conor
Today is my birthday – my eighteenth birthday.
It’s supposed to mean something. I’m an adult. But I don’t feel any different to yesterday. Still got red pimples all over my forehead that don’t go away no matter how much Clearasil I use. Still got out of bed this morning and ran around the living room with our dog Jasper for five minutes like crazy.
I can legally go to the pub now and buy my own drinks. Not that I’m really bothered. Don’t like beer much. I can vote too, though I’d not know who to pick. They’re all as bad as each other. That’s what Sophie said. She was eighteen two months ago and read a website about what we can do now as adults. Not that we’ll do them all.
I’m waiting for Bernadette, in our favourite place.
It’s this café near the town centre and it’s been here years, even though it’s changed name and owner lots of times. We come here for two reasons. The first is that she met my dad here years ago. They weren’t even supposed to meet – she was actually on some blind date with this other man called Richard. I love that weird shit. Coincidences you couldn’t make up.
The second reason we come is that they do the best freakin’ steak and ale pie in the world and it’s only three quid with loads of chips. I’m a pig and love my food, but I swim lots so I stay fit that way.
I just started training to be a lifeguard.
Wasn’t sure about it for a long time. I mean, I was sure I wanted to do it, but not sure I was good enough. The careers staff in sixth form harass you all the time about what you want to do when you grow up, but who the hell knows at sixteen or seventeen? When they asked what I like most and I said drawing they said that wasn’t useful and I’d just end up teaching it. They kept saying pick a trade or profession and stick to it.
Bernadette said go with what’s your calling.
Tried boxing once. Went to this club off Hessle Road that my mate Mark runs but I was shit. I knew him when I was fostered once and he said I could go for free. But I found out that just because you like watching a sport doesn’t mean you’re good at it. I’ve got two left feet or something. Probably two left fists too.
But it doesn’t seem to matter in the water. I feel good there. The scars on my legs tingle when I first dive in.
The waitress comes over with this big smile and asks if I know what I want to order. She knows us so knows I’ll want pie. I tell her I’m just waiting for My Bernadette. I call her that. My Bernadette. I’ve never called her Mum because I see my real mum. Also it’s hard to change what you call someone and I’d known her a long time before she became my adoptive mother.
She’s not late though, I’m early. It’s a bad habit I have. I’m scared I’ll miss something so I always get places a half-hour too early. I went to my first lifeguard lesson so early I was asleep when the others got there. I’ve had one session and we didn’t do much except sign forms and learn about what it involves. I have to be able to swim fifty metres in less than a minute while wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I can already do that. Took loads of practice.
The café door opens – you always know when it does because this wind chime slams against it and annoys you. All the customers look up. Bernadette comes in with a blue bag in one hand and some envelopes in the other.
Happy birthday, she says, and kisses my cheek.
I used to hate kisses when I was about fifteen. Would wipe them off. But you’re an arsehole at that age. These days I let her, and sometimes even kiss her too. I do now. She smells of our house. It’s weird how people do.
We live in this small house a bit like a cottage, the last on a row. She said it was what she’d always wanted. Not big or cold like her haunted flat before. But she misses the trees. Always goes on about the friggin’ trees. We planted a line of them but they take so long to grow that we’ll probably be old when they’re full trees. She said maybe my kids might enjoy them one day.
That’s if I ever get married.
She sits opposite me and the waitress takes our order. Bernadette says she’s got a full hour for lunch because she told them it was my birthday. She works in this travel place. Sells posh cruises and stuff. Said once that if she can’t actually get to see the world she’s happy to sell it to other people, and she gets discounts and we went to Mexico with Anne last year. If she makes enough sales this year we might go to New York in January. Sophie might come.
Did you talk to your mum? asks Bernadette.
I did. She rang before I came out. I spoke to my sister Kayleigh too. She’s eleven and got attitude, but I don’t take it. I’m always telling her to be kind to her mum and that she’s lucky to have her. My brother Sam lives with them too but he was out with his mates today.
My mum has had loads of issues. She used to do stuff I don’t like. Now she works in a care home, which is nice. She gets depression big time and probably always will. I reckon my brother Sam has that too. He’s also got mild autism and it makes it quite difficult to talk to him, but I can. You just have to be patient. You have to talk about the boring stuff so he gets to the good stuff.
When my mum cries to me I get this awful feeling in my stomach and can’t cope with it. Sounds mean of me I know. But I have to get away from her when she’s that way cos I’m scared I’ll fall into that blackness too and never get out. That’s when I draw.
I always have. As far back as I can remember. Probably always will. Doesn’t matter if it’s not what I do as a job because it’s much more to me than that. I couldn’t just do it because someone told me, Oh you have to draw this building or this boat or that thing. I have to feel it. Don’t reckon I could teach it neither. Don’t have words to explain, so how could I?
I can’t believe you’re eighteen, says Bernadette. Where has the time gone? How did you get to be six foot tall? What happened to my cute-faced boy? I wish I’d taken more photos or counted every minute or something.
She goes on and on, and I just laugh.
The waitress brings our pies. Loads of gravy on them and even more if you ask for it. Whatever Bernadette doesn’t eat I will. She says I should have it while it’s hot and then open my present. So I do. I tell Bernadette what I’m gonna do later. Me and my mates from sixth form are going out.
Sophie’s coming too. They always do my head in, winding me up that I should just ask her out once and for all. But my relationship with Sophie isn’t like that. It’s hard to explain. It’s more than that. I don’t need to ask her to be something to me. She just is. We kissed. Just recently. It felt right. But it’s no one else’s business. No need for anyone to be interfering or labelling us.
When we’re done eating Bernadette pushes the gift bag over the table, but I say I’ll open the cards first. I don’t want to – everyone likes presents most. But it’s good manners.
There’s one from Anne with a huge eighteen on the front made out of paper tissue. She’s written inside how proud she is of me. I get so embarrassed about shit like that. There are cards from Anne’s daughters and then one from Bernadette. It’s got a black-and-white photo of Muhammad Ali on the front. He died in 2016 an
d I was heartbroken. One day I’m going to Louisville to see where he was born and grew up.
Open your prezzie, says Bernadette.
She’s more excited than me. So I take out something wrapped in tissue. It’s a book, I can tell. So I get ready to fake excitement at an Ali biography I’ve already got. But it isn’t. I mean, it is a book, but this one is yellow and old-looking. At first I think she’s made me a photo album but inside there are handwritten notes and stuff.
And then I remember.
It’s not like I forgot, more that I haven’t thought about it in ages. Not since before I lived with Bernadette. But it comes back now. There was this book they were all doing. I think I even wrote in it once. It got passed around to all the people that knew me. They’d write stuff in about whatever was going on in my life. Someone said it was with my dad the night he died. I don’t think you forget things, do you? I think I put my memories away for a while just like Bernadette did with this book.
When I look at her she’s crying.
I’m sorry, she says. I don’t mean to be gloomy on your birthday. I’m not sad. It’s just, well, there’s so much in this book for you. It’s going to explain loads. They call it a Lifebook. It might make you sad. Might bring back painful memories. I’d put it away and not looked at it in years and then I read it last week in bed. I remembered how it was, what a lost boy you were and how hard we all tried to do the right thing. But also I felt so joyful that you’ve survived it and that you’re with me and we’re here on your big birthday. So I think it will make you happy too. You look like your dad, you know. You’ve his eyes and way of moving. It’s just uncanny.
