Theresa sings over the backing track alone. The door to the common room opens again, and a woman I’ve never seen before pushes past Wendy. A hard-faced woman in skintight grey jeans and a black furry gilet. A woman pointing an accusing finger at me.
‘You,’ she shouts over the music, ‘come here.’
Theresa’s voice trails away, leaving the backing track exposed.
‘I asked you to please wait downstairs,’ Wendy says to the woman. To Debbie, John’s wife. It has to be.
‘And I told you I wanted to speak to Grace Walker,’ she says. The music plays on as the students glance at each other and then at me.
Linda steps in and requests that Debbie wait outside, but Debbie has other ideas.
‘Know what these are, do you?’ The photographs she holds up make me freeze.
‘Let’s discuss this in my office,’ Linda says, but Debbie pushes forward to the outer rim of confused and curious students.
‘No,’ I say, but it’s too late. Debbie throws the pictures in my direction and they land among the students sitting on the floor. I rush forward, grabbing at images of my breasts, John’s thighs. A shot of me on the table, legs splayed, falls in front of Nieve. She puts her hand over her mouth and looks away. I snatch up the photo, mortified.
‘You look different in real life,’ Debbie says, ‘or maybe I just don’t recognise you without my husband’s dick in your mouth.’
Everyone stares at me. I press the photographs to my chest.
‘That’s enough.’ Linda takes Debbie’s arm. ‘My office now or I’ll call the police.’
‘Wind your neck in.’ Debbie shakes her arm free. ‘I’m leaving.’ She waves at the students. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’
She teeters out of the room on the slither-thin heels of her boots. Linda follows and Wendy holds the door open, waiting for me. I exit the room with my head down, hot with shame. As the door closes, the karaoke machine switches from ‘Santa Baby’ to ‘Away in a Manger’, but no one sings along.
Debbie and Linda are arguing in the hallway, Debbie insisting she has no intention of going to Linda’s office.
‘Oh, hello, Grace,’ she says as I approach them.
‘I didn’t send you these photos,’ I say. ‘I had nothing to do with this.’
Debbie’s cool blue eyes hold nothing but hate. ‘I told the police you’d say that.’ The police? Sweat prickles on my upper lip. ‘They reckon they can’t do anything at this stage,’ she says, ‘not enough evidence. Looks like you got away with it this time.’
‘Right,’ says Linda, ‘you’ve been to the police and you’ve had your moment of glory here. I think you’re done.’
‘Is this the kind of person you want working for you?’ Debbie sneers. ‘Standards must be low here, that’s all I can say.’
I hold the pictures out. ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Keep them,’ she says, ‘they’re only copies. I’ve got the originals, just in case you try anything else.’ She steps towards me, her heels bringing her almost to my height. On the right side of her jaw, beneath the thick layer of foundation, a muscle twitches. ‘You come anywhere near my house or my family again and I’ll sort you out myself.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘You’re not the first affair that prick’s had,’ she says, turning away and heading for the stairs, ‘but you will be the last.’
***
After a few minutes in her office, Linda holds up her hands and begs me to stop apologising.
‘I honestly didn’t send them,’ I say, still clutching the photographs. ‘I’ve got no idea who took them. I’m so sorry the students had to see that.’ What would they think of me? How could I face them again?
‘I had an affair with a married man once,’ Linda says. ‘He was the husband of one of my university lecturers. When he finished it, I was gutted.’ She glances down at her hands. ‘I know what it feels like to be in your position. And you’re under so much pressure with your mum that maybe—’
‘I ended the affair, not him.’
Linda subjects me to a long, intense gaze. ‘If you’ve got nothing to do with these pictures, then you should be worried,’ she says. ‘Someone followed you and took them and then tried to incriminate you.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you been to the police?’
‘No.’
‘You should, Grace. Really. Do you have any idea who might have taken them?’
I tell her my theories—John’s friends, his wife. ‘Although the wife doesn’t seem likely now,’ I add.
‘Go to the police right away. Today. Now.’
I nod, any excuse not to go for a drink with the others. I couldn’t deal with that, and I doubt they could either.
‘And I want you to take the full holiday over Christmas,’ Linda says with a tight smile. ‘Two of the students have dropped out of the Christmas programme, so I was thinking of cancelling it anyway.’
‘It’s fine. I can manage.’
‘No,’ she says, ‘you need a break.’ Does her firm tone stem from a desire to help me or a desire to get rid of me? She could easily not renew my contract in January.
‘Fine,’ I say, ‘you’re right.’
Not that I have any choice.
***
A wiry man with a buggy blocks the entrance to Islington Police Station. The infant inside observes me with wide brown eyes, craning her head round the side of the buggy to watch me open the main door.
Is she a sign?
Legs shaking, I step inside. Automatic glass doors slide open, leading me into a large waiting room with yellow walls. The clock opposite the door puts the time at twenty past two. The pasty, middle-aged desk sergeant behind the plastic screen is dealing with a young girl in a black leather miniskirt and thigh-high boots.
‘I wouldn’t lose my handbag,’ she says, ‘some wanker’s stolen it.’
He gives her a form to fill out and sends her on her way. I step up to the screen.
‘Yes,’ the sergeant says, ‘how can I help you?’
A flash of dizziness.
‘How can I help you?’ he repeats.
‘I need to report…’ What, exactly? ‘Someone’s been following me, taking pictures. That sort of thing.’
He tells me to take a seat and promises someone will interview me shortly.
I sit on a grey plastic chair and wait. On my left is a set of swing doors that must lead to the heart of the station. I shut my eyes and imagine the interview rooms that exist somewhere beyond them. Small, blue rooms with no windows. Rooms that make your chest constrict as soon as you enter them.
‘Grace Walker?’ I open my eyes to see a young, female officer waiting by the double doors. ‘Come on through.’
I stand up. In the interview room, a bald policeman will hand me a cup of tea. His breath will smell like sour rubbish. He will keep asking me questions. When we found you in the passageway, you said someone was following you. Who was following you? You said you were being punished. Who is punishing you?
‘Grace?’ the officer says, her voice spiky with impatience.
The yellow walls of the waiting room appear to move closer. My temples pound.
I have to get out of here.
‘Sorry,’ I say to the policewoman, ‘I’ve made a mistake.’
44
Tuesday, 22 December 2015
A mild afternoon. Dark, dramatic clouds overhead, threatening to break. As Ryan and I strolled through Brunswick Square Gardens, he pointed out the daffodils encircling the famous Brunswick plane tree.
‘Daffodils in December,’ he said, ‘that’s nuts.’
We walked hand in hand, wearing the new coats I’d bought us from The Kooples. Grey duffel for him, black cape with faux mink collar for me. Ryan’s hand squeezed mine.
‘I’m glad we’re getting the whole day together,’ he said.
‘Me too.’ I’d cancelled this afternoon’s appointment with Dr Costello. Flu, I’d told the receptionist in a feeble voice
. Terrible flu.
When we reached the other side of the gardens, I led Ryan through the gate to the front of the Foundling Museum. The building’s neo-Georgian façade gave little hint of the sad stories it concealed.
‘This is it,’ I said, suddenly shy. My favourite place to visit in all of London. I’d never taken anyone there before. I tried to keep my introduction brief but couldn’t hide my admiration for Thomas Coram, the founder of the original Foundling Hospital. What a man. Starting up the country’s first ever children’s charity in the eighteenth century, so that mothers not fit to be mothers had somewhere to leave their offspring. ‘This building was constructed in 1930 on the site of the original Foundling Hospital,’ I said. ‘It used to be the headquarters of the Coram Foundation and then became a museum.’
‘Looks like I’ve got my own private tour guide.’ Ryan leaned in for a kiss.
‘No time for that.’ I ducked away from him. ‘There’s a lot to see inside.’
‘Great,’ Ryan enthused, but in the reception area, during my detailed rundown of the museum’s layout, he kept checking his phone.
‘The picture gallery on the next floor’s got some incredible portraits,’ I said, trying to ignore his rudeness. ‘The original hospital was the country’s first art gallery.’ I explained that Thomas Coram had invited famous artists to exhibit at the hospital in order to attract wealthy Londoners and their patronage. ‘The gallery’s an exact reproduction of the original room.’
‘Awesome.’ Ryan glanced at his phone again. ‘We need to get a move on though, babe. It’s nearly half three and we need to be back at yours in time to get ready.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ I snapped. ‘Unless you aren’t interested?’
‘Hey.’ He shoved his phone in his coat pocket. ‘Of course I’m interested. It’s your number one place.’ He pointed at the entrance to the ground-floor gallery. ‘Let’s start here,’ he said and strode off. I could tell he wanted the visit over with quickly so we didn’t turn up late for the Aroma Christmas party. Cocktails at seven to start with, in some bar in Bethnal Green. Ryan had nagged me to go until I gave in. He’d looked so delighted, as if I’d agreed to move in with him or something. Apparently Nick and Maya couldn’t wait to meet me. The thought of the evening ahead filled me with dread, and I knew I’d have to drink myself numb to get through it.
The gallery, a compact space with pale grey walls, was busy. The usual mix of tourists ticking another attraction off the list and sincere visitors taking time to really connect with the stories of the unwanted children. These were mostly women, often wandering the museum alone. I’d spent hours watching these lone females, observing their reactions to the exhibits and guessing what secrets might lie in their pasts. No wonder the gallery assistant, a gangly guy in a black polo neck and black cords, gave me a nod of recognition.
Ryan veered towards the tall display cabinets that housed the most moving items in the museum. Keen to save these for later, I guided him to the photographs and videos of the last surviving foundlings—adults in their sixties now—who’d grown up in the hospital before its closure. The men and women spoke of their basic living conditions and the hospital’s tough regime.
‘Some life,’ Ryan said. At least he seemed to be paying attention.
‘Can you imagine being a child and knowing your mother didn’t want you?’ I said.
‘Be tough, that’s for sure.’
Understatement. The Harringtons may have given me every material comfort, but when the people in the videos spoke of their loneliness, I understood what they meant. That particular pain of waiting for a mother who never comes. When emptiness struck, I would often come to the museum and hang out with these men and women. They made me feel like I belonged.
Now my life had changed. Soon I’d be spending Christmas with my mother for the first time, if my rash deed with the photographs hadn’t spoiled everything. What if John or his wife had reported the incident? I’d worn gloves while handling the pictures and the envelope, so the police would find no traces of me there. Surely John wouldn’t embarrass himself by going to the police? His wife would probably just weep over the photographs while downing a bottle of Chardonnay.
‘Nick says they’ll meet us at the bar,’ Ryan mumbled, eyes glued to his phone.
‘You’re supposed to be taking this seriously,’ I hissed. Ryan smiled and slid his phone into his pocket.
‘I am. I just want tonight to be perfect, you know?’
His happiness unnerved me; I didn’t know what to do with it. I ushered him along to a display case containing a diary written by one of the foundlings in 1947. He peered through the glass, marvelling at the cramped writing on the pages of the tiny notebook.
My unease about the photographs had prompted me to cover my tracks a little. Yesterday, I’d visited my mother’s flat with the intention of returning the World’s Greatest Mum mug, which I’d recently reclaimed while in a bad mood with her. Two shiny new locks greeted me from her front door. My key fitted neither of them, nor had she left her key safe in the plant pot as usual. I told myself not to overreact. I’d spooked her, but soon she’d know the truth and all that would be behind us.
Ryan kissed my cheek. ‘It means a lot to me that you’re meeting my friends.’ An elderly lady in a beige quilted coat smiled at me. Did she see us as a normal young couple? Young and in love, with a normal future ahead of us?
‘Check these out,’ I said. Taking his hand, I led him to the most difficult exhibits, the tiny items housed in the glass cabinets on the right hand wall of the gallery. ‘Look at the scraps of fabric. Each mother had to leave one behind as a way of identifying her child if she ever came to reclaim it.’
Ryan shook his head. ‘That’s so sad.’
‘In case the fabric got lost, they used to leave something extra.’ I showed him the coins and buttons and earrings. ‘They’re called tokens.’
I’d gathered my own collection of tokens from my mother. Her scarf, her white vest, a few precious strands of her hair.
‘It says the kids never got to see the fabric or the tokens,’ Ryan said.
‘I know.’
‘That must have been heartbreaking for the mothers.’
‘What?’
He pointed to a scrap of faded purple fabric, embroidered with two words in yellow thread. Forgive Me. ‘She obviously wanted her child to know how much she loved it. They should have let the literate mothers leave a note or something.’
‘A note?’ My raised voice invited nosy glances from the other visitors. ‘So what if they had left a note? Wouldn’t have changed what they did.’
‘Chill out,’ Ryan said, looking bewildered. ‘It’s not like they had much choice.’ He nodded at the information plaque. ‘It says there most of the women were either poor, or widowed or had some bloke run out on them.’
‘You sound like Costello.’
‘Keep your voice down. Who’s Costello?’
‘Are you seriously suggesting it was worse for the mothers than their children?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Society didn’t make it easy for women then.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Excuse me, guys.’ The gallery assistant appeared next to us. ‘It’s great you’re engaging with the themes of the exhibition, but could you just keep it down a bit?’
No. I could not keep it down. I told Ryan he was wrong, and he claimed he didn’t get why I was so hysterical. Of course he didn’t. I should have known he could never understand me. Images from my scrapbook flashed through my mind.
Police launch search for Cassie’s mother
‘What could be worse than your mother not wanting you?’ I said.
‘Jesus, Cass. What are you on?’
I slapped him. Seconds later, the security guard appeared and escorted us out of the building.
‘Don’t come back,’ he said.
As we stood at the bottom of the museum steps, the storm clouds above spat o
ut their first fat drops of rain.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Ryan said, nursing his cheek as if it actually hurt.
Emptiness surged through me. ‘I’m adopted,’ I said. ‘My mother didn’t want me.’
Shock flashed across his face, followed by confusion. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I knew you wouldn’t understand.’
‘That’s totally illogical. If you’d told me I would have been a bit more sensitive.’
‘At least I know what you really think.’
He showed his true colours then. Told me being adopted was no excuse for treating people badly. Called me impossible.
‘If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t say that,’ I told him.
‘I don’t want to know the whole story. I can’t take this, Cass. One minute we’re fine, the next I’ve done something to piss you off. Your moods are crazy.’
‘Ryan, listen—’
‘I’m done. We are officially over.’
The emptiness gave way to rage.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll have that coat back then.’
‘What?’
‘I bought the coat. It belongs to me.’
‘Fine.’ He unfastened the coat’s leather toggles and wrestled himself out of it. ‘Have the bloody thing.’ He threw it at me and turned to go.
‘I always knew you’d leave me,’ I yelled after him.
He did leave. Abandoned me by the steps of the museum, where I stood for quite some time, the rain soaking into my coat, until the security guard told me to move on.
45
Tuesday, 12 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
One night, while cowering in the wardrobe as usual, terrorised by her footsteps and the drum drum drumming of her heart, I sensed something had changed. When the wardrobe door opened and her hand reached for me, I reached back.
Her hand was soft and warm, our shared blood throbbing beneath her skin. Her hand tugged at mine. Come on, come on. I realised that this time she didn’t want to hurt me. Come on, come on. She wanted to help me. She wanted to show me something.
I woke crying and knew what I had to do. I got up, got dressed and walked into town. I waited outside Boots until it opened at 9 a.m., and then I ran inside to buy a pregnancy test.
She Chose Me Page 17
