Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

Mary took a clear-plastic A4 envelope from the green folder. She pushed the folder to one side and took the first of several sheets of paper from the envelope.

  A sudden prickle of panic came over me as I realised I hadn’t brought a pen or paper.

  ‘Will I need to take notes?’ I said.

  ‘These are all copies,’ she said. ‘You will be able to take them away with you when we are finished.’

  I clasped my hands together on the table in front of me. Crossed my legs. Held my breath.

  ‘There’s not a great deal here,’ she said. ‘But we’ll go through it anyway.’

  She read out the first sheet, without letting me see what was written on it. Even when she had finished she didn’t pass it over to me.

  My birth mother was called Amelie. She was French. My father was Richard. He was English.

  I sat in silence as she read. Tried to take it all in. Mentally record every snippet of information. I tried, simultaneously, to analyse it for signs of mental illness in my parents.

  I weighed 7lbs 7oz when I was born. Blood tests taken on mother and child came back with negative results. There was no explanation of what they were negative for. And the sheet confirmed that my mother had a signed receipt for the Government Memorandum headed “Adoption of Children”.

  The officer that had written the report concluded that my mother had come across as a desperately sad woman. Only wanting the best for her child, Christine Lapton. Me. She was quiet and withdrawn, but with a genuine determination to make sure her daughter would be looked after.

  There were possible issues with my father, Richard Lapton. He was a dentist with his own practice near Cawsand in Cornwall. He was not entirely in favour of the adoption. He had hinted that there were concerns with his wife’s drinking. Although she was clear thinking in regard to the adoption, she did appear quite an awkward person, sometimes a little chaotic.

  I was well looked after by her and up until the time of the review I was healthy and growing as expected.

  Mary put the report face down on the table in front of her and pulled the next sheet of paper from the plastic envelope. I put my hands to my mouth and tried to look through a gap in the blind. Tried to take my mind off how I was feeling.

  I didn’t have to read between the lines to see that there was a problem with my mother. Awkward and chaotic, withdrawn, drinking. Desperately sad. I knew how she felt. I wondered if that was just the start of her problems, whether her symptoms became steadily worse. What would mine do? I had already been through the drinking stage. And withdrawn, chaotic and awkward seemed to be a part of my everyday life at that moment.

  I wondered how my father had felt. Watching his wife disintegrate and seeing his child taken away for adoption. What did it do to him?

  The second sheet of paper was headed up “Adoption Act 1958” and consisted of three statements. One from my current mum and dad, one about me, and one about my birth parents.

  The statement from my birth parents showed their consent to the adoption, knowing that it was in my best interests to have different parents.

  The statement about the mum and dad I grew up with talked about their intention to formally adopt me. And that during visits to their home by an officer of the Authority, I had appeared happy and well cared for, and to be making good progress.

  The statement about me indicated that the child — Christine Lapton, was to be known as Christine Cooper. I was aged eight months and had a satisfactory medical certificate. I had been placed with the applicants (Mr & Mrs Cooper) and had been in their continuous care and possession since then.

  I was shocked that everything seemed to have been summed up in such a short space. A new life in just three short paragraphs.

  The next few sheets in the envelope were forms and court records. All the legal stuff. Most of it signed and written by officials.

  And the last three sheets were headed “Guardian Ad Litem Enquiry — Adoption Act, 1958”.

  Three pages of questions and hand-written answers taken during an interview with my birth mother — Amelie Lapton.

  It listed her nationality as French and her employment as a librarian. It gave details of her child, and her husband.

  It gave her address as 18, Bay View Road, Cawsand, Cornwall.

  One of the questions asked if she had freely consented to the adoption. She replied that she had. On what grounds? Unable to provide a home for infant.

  Questions about her health followed. Normally healthy? Yes. Any history of serious illness or mental or physical disease in herself or family? No. Does the mother believe the child is normally healthy, physically and mentally? Yes.

  Religion of mother? Catholic.

  A section at the bottom of the last page was headed Remarks/Comments. It was blank.

  Underneath that, the final paragraph explained the nature and permanent effect of an adoption order and that in giving her consent she fully understood that it would be irrevocable, and would permanently deprive her of her parental rights.

  My birth mother’s spider-thin signature called out to me from just below that paragraph.

  Looking at it on a sheet of paper, it wasn’t possible to see the pain or emotion involved. It looked cold and calculated. Simple and quick. It looked like a relief for everyone. Glad to be shot of the child. Not my responsibility anymore. Now I can get on with my life — without that burden.

  I tried to put myself in her shoes, but I couldn’t.

  Would I eventually end up there anyway? Would the madness that forced her to give up her child, force me to give up mine? I wondered whether she had already experienced blackouts, or feelings of wanting to hurt people. Desperate times called for desperate measures, I knew that. But giving up your child?

  Mary put all the sheets of paper back into the clear envelope and handed it to me.

  ‘Do you know what you want to do now?’ she said.

  My mouth felt so dry I thought I might not be able to speak.

  ‘I need to find them,’ I said. ‘It’s quite urgent. I only have a few weeks at the most.’

  Mary’s expression turned to one of shock. I hadn’t meant it to come across like it did.

  ‘I mean, I was attacked a few months ago. I sustained fairly serious head injuries. And since then, I’ve been experiencing dreams and visions, blacking out often.

  ‘The doctors have said that I now need to have a psychiatric assessment. And it’s going to happen in the next few weeks. So obviously I have to find them before then. I have to find out if there is anything in the family, any history of mental illness.’

  Mary pointed to the envelope now grasped firmly in my hand.

  ‘There was a question about mental health,’ she said. ‘And the answer came back clear.’

  I nodded. ‘I know. But is it possible that she was trying to hide it? Or maybe she thought it was going to come on later? And there’s nothing about my father.’

  ‘It appears that he was in good health too,’ Mary said. ‘Judging by what we do know about him. A successful business. Presumably well respected in the area. His main concern seemed to be regarding your mother.’

  ‘So that’s why I need to find them. If I was taken into adoption because she was going insane, I need to know about it. All the evidence of chaos and confusion and desperation they talk about in here are exactly the feelings I have been experiencing. I don’t want to lose my children. I don’t want them taken away from me. So I need to find out for sure exactly what was wrong with my mother so that I can be prepared for whatever happens to me. I want to make sure my children are safe. But not by placing them up for adoption.’

  Mary leaned forward, glanced in the direction of the window.

  ‘Can you help me to find them?’ I said.

  She drummed her fingers on the table and pulled the now empty green folder towards her.

  ‘There are certainly some things we can do to help. For instance, I can check to see if your birth mother and father are still alive. I can
see if any death certificate has been registered with a GP anywhere. It doesn’t always turn something up, but it might. At least that way you’ll know if it’s worth pursuing.’

  ‘What if there are other children, or relatives? They might know if there is anything in the family. Would they be over in France?’

  Mary shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Christine. I’ve no way of knowing where any relatives might be. There are a couple of adoption registers that you can go on. They may already have your parents on there. Since the law changed a good many birth parents and relatives have signed onto the registers in the hope that their children might start searching for them. It’s a good place to start. There is a charge to go on them, but it’s only a one off payment for administration. Once you’re on, you’re on for good. No more fees.’

  ‘Or I could just find them on the Internet,’ I said. ‘Now that I know where they were and their dates of birth.’

  ‘Even if you did, we would strongly urge you to come through us. We are used to this sort of thing. We can write an initial letter. It wouldn’t mention your name in case the person who opened the letter knew nothing about the adoption, but from the way we worded it, if either of you birth parents were to read it, they would know it was about you. Very often we say we’re trying to find relatives of a person born on such and such a date — and then give your date of birth.

  ‘If your birth parents are no longer together, or are with other partners now, they may not have told their new partner about their past, about the adoption. So this is a very discreet and safe way of letting them know that you are looking for them. They can then respond to our letter accordingly.’

  What she was saying made sense. I knew that. But time wasn’t on my side. I could see “signing onto registers” taking time. I could see “writing discreet letters so as not to cause anyone any embarrassment” taking time.

  I could see “me going on the Internet and checking names, addresses and dates” taking less time. And I wouldn’t have to pay for the privilege. I could also see that Mary was very anxious that I wouldn’t fuck this up. She had already made it clear that she would check with GP surgeries, which was great. But that seemed to be about the limit of any help she could offer at that moment. They were obviously better at things once the birth parents were found, and a meeting needed to be sorted out. I didn’t want to upset her.

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘I think that the letter idea is a great one.’

  She smiled, stopped drumming her fingers on the table.

  ‘I’m not that Internet savvy anyway,’ I said. ‘But I will go on those registers. They sound like a sensible first move.’

  She nodded.

  ‘It is the best way,’ she said. ‘And then if you come up with a result you can come back to me and I’ll arrange to write a letter of approach.’

  As I walked away from the offices after meeting with Mary Brookes my heart started pounding. Everything around me — the traffic; building work; shouting — it all grew louder. Deafening almost. The voices of passers-by rushed in and out of my consciousness. I started running. I gripped the plastic envelope which contained my hidden history. I realised I was humming in time with my steps. Still running, my breath getting quicker. I wanted to leap into the air. To bound along the pavement like a gazelle. I was filled with a lightness. An enormous smile spread across my face. My humming turned to singing. Out of the corner of my eye I could see concerned looks from other people. It made me laugh. I felt fantastic.

  And tears streamed down my face, and fell to the concrete beneath my feet.

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