Janice Ward came to the door with two walking sticks, one in each hand. Everything about her looked rotund. She was smaller than me, perhaps only five foot and a smidgen. She had white hair and round, blue-rimmed glasses.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’
Her comment threw me.
‘You were only a baby the last time.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’
Her house smelled old. Smelled of rugs and electric fires, of teapots and woollen cardigans. But I didn’t feel the need to open any windows.
‘I’ll get us some tea,’ she said.
Although similar in size to my father’s house in St Germans, the interior was the complete opposite. Janice had collectibles everywhere. Thimbles lined up along the mantelpiece, brass-ware hung on one wall, porcelain figures filled a glass fronted cabinet, egg cups covered a small table. There were nik-naks all over the place. The carpet in the living-room had seen better days, small ridges ran along it in lines where the threads of carpet had become detached and pulled away; faded colours; dark stains, then lighter patches, presumably where she had tried to remove some of the dark stains. But the room didn’t feel dirty. I had none of that clammy feeling on my palms that I sometimes got when I visited the homes of some of the children at school.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said from the kitchen. ‘Sit yourself down.’
She wheeled in a trolley with two cups of tea sloshing around on the top. I stood up to take them from her.
‘I’ve managed to keep some of it in the cup,’ she said. ‘It’s this bumpy floor.’
She smiled. Her grey teeth wonky in her mouth, but more like a dear old lady rather than a wicked old witch.
‘It’s so kind of you to see me,’ I said. ‘I know this isn’t normally the done thing.’
‘Oh I’m too old to worry about “the done thing”,’ she said. ‘Sometimes people are more important than rules.’
She sat down next to me on the sofa.
‘Besides,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you after all these years.’
‘Anything would be a help,’ I said. ‘I’ve already found out some things.’
She patted my leg and shuffled herself further back into the sofa. She leaned her sticks against the arm.
‘You tell me what you know,’ she said. ‘I’d love to hear it.’
‘I only found out recently that I was adopted,’ I said.
I told her everything my mum and dad had told me about the adoption. She nodded when I mentioned that they had been told not to say anything to me about it. I told her how I had reacted at first.
‘Then I had the meeting with Mary Brookes,’ I said. ‘She showed me my adoption file.’
Janice smiled as she listened, sipping occasionally from her cup of tea.
‘And I used the Internet to find my birth father. It was quite easy, really. He lives in St Germans now. I’ve been to Cawsand, seen my mother’s grave. I went up on Rame Head before coming to see you.’
I didn’t tell her about the blacking out and waking up leaning against my mother’s headstone.
‘Tell me about your birth father,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘He’s a lovely man. It was a bit of a shock to him, at first, me turning up. Of course it would be. But he came round very quickly to it. Told me little bits about my mother. Told me about how she died. And I found out that I had an older sister. That was a shock too.’
A slurping sound came from her mouth as she took another sip.
‘But, as you know, he’s in hospital now. He had a heart attack. They say he’s on the mend. He might even have been up and about today. I’m going to visit him after you and I have finished.’
Her teacup rattled against the saucer as she put it back down on the trolley. She dabbed her lips with a small handkerchief she retrieved from up her sleeve. She moved her sticks and shifted around to face me. I smiled at her, hoping I had told her everything.
‘I remember your mother,’ she said. ‘She was a beautiful young woman. Long black hair and lovely eyes. You could see that she was French. She just had that look about her. She had beautiful skin.’
Janice rubbed her cheek as she spoke, rippling the soft age-lines beneath her eyes.
‘Every adoption case has a sadness about it,’ she said. ‘And a happiness too, if the child goes to a caring and loving home. You can never be a hundred percent sure when you place a child, but your new parents seemed like lovely people.’
My stomach somersaulted.
‘I couldn’t have asked for a better mum and dad,’ I said. ‘I had a wonderful childhood. And they love my children so much.’
Janice closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply.
‘I helped place your sister too,’ she said.
My hand shot to my mouth. My somersaulting stomach constricted.
‘Although, I don’t know who she went to. I never came into contact with her adoptive parents. But I helped your mother with the process.’
‘I had no idea,’ I said.
‘She was a delightful child. Older than you were at the time of your adoption. A very gentle nature. No trouble at all.’
Tears were already rolling down my cheeks.
‘Did you … choose my parents?’
‘They chose you, dear,’ Janice said. ‘Of course we met. They had to go through so many hoops to get you. Every couple who adopted had to. All sorts of checks were made, and even then they had to wait six months before it was all official.’
‘Do you know who dealt with my sister’s adoption? I mean who … passed her on?’
‘She was placed by my boss at the time, Phillip Townsend.’
‘You’re not still in touch with him by any chance?’
She rubbed her cheek again.
‘Phillip died about ten years ago I believe. I’m sorry.’
We both sat quietly for thirty seconds or more.
‘She was very brave, your mother,’ Janice said. ‘What she did showed remarkable courage. She was heartbroken, but felt it was the right thing to do.’
I was surprised when Janice leaned over and took hold of my hand. I struggled to keep her gaze.
‘You want to know the truth, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You want to know the circumstances?’
I nodded.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
She pulled my hand towards her and cupped her other hand over it.
‘After Emily was adopted I think your mother didn’t want to have anymore children.’
Now I knew why she had taken hold of my hand.
‘She loved children,’ Janice said. ‘But I think she felt it wouldn’t be fair to have another child. To bring a child into her world. She would have feared for its safety. For your safety.’
I swallowed hard. Tried to relax.
‘Right from the start she came to us,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t the other way round. Often in cases like this we take the child into care. The parent has no choice. But because there was never any evidence of wrongdoing or harm, we wouldn’t have ever become involved unless your mother hadn’t come to us.’
I wiped the tears away as best I could, but I was fighting a losing battle.
‘That was with Emily,’ she said. ‘But it was also the same with you. She came to us. She specifically asked for me. Asked if I would deal with her again. Deal with you. Normally we can’t grant requests like that, but the workload was such that I was the only one available. It suited me because I liked your mother, but it was heartbreaking at the same time. Giving up another little child must have been the hardest thing. Especially through no fault of her own. If she could have found a way to keep you, she would. But she was convinced you were in danger.’
‘She would have kept me?’ I said.
‘She would have kept you both, if she could. She did consider going back to France at one point.’
‘But she coul
dn’t because of her parents?’ I said.
‘That’s right. And she really had no one else to turn to. Certainly in this country she knew very few people. It was a tremendously difficult time for her.’
‘How bad was she?’ I said. ‘How bad was her condition at that point?’
Janice looked as though she hadn’t understood the question.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘My mother’s mental illness,’ I said. ‘How bad was it?’
She blinked and frowned.
‘What mental illness?’ she said.
I shook my head.
‘Your mother was one hundred percent fit and healthy. She didn’t have any health issues. And she certainly had no mental illness.’
My eyes blanked over, Janice went out of focus. I squeezed them shut then opened them again.
‘I thought she was ill,’ I said. ‘That’s why she had to have us adopted. You said she was scared for our safety. Scared of what she might do to us.’
Janice shook her head.
‘No, Christine. That’s not right. Your mother loved you. She never would have hurt you.’
‘But her family in France. Weren’t they mentally ill. Wasn’t that why she didn’t take us over there?’
‘Her parents had both died,’ she said. ‘In a house fire. They weren’t ill at all. We looked into the medical background of both your mother and your father. There was no mental illness anywhere as far as we know.’
But if both her parents were dead, why had Richard told me that they had refused to come to her funeral? Unless he didn’t know they had died.
‘She wasn’t ill at all?’
‘Neither of them were.’
I didn’t understand what was happening. I wondered if Janice had got the wrong person after all. Perhaps she wasn’t remembering my case, perhaps it was another. None of this made any sense.
‘But why was she scared for our safety then?’ I said. ‘Why did she give us up?’
Janice pursed her lips and patted the back of my hand. She hesitated for a moment, then found the momentum to speak.
‘It was your father,’ she said. ‘Amelie was scared of what your father might do.’
If she had slapped me across the face it wouldn’t have stung more.
‘My father?’
The one I had just found, the one who I was about to visit in hospital. The kind and lovely neighbour that Thelma was lucky to have. The man who loved me.
‘I’m so sorry, Christine,’ she said. ‘Your mother told us about your father. Told us what he was like. Apparently he was violent towards her. He was aggressive. Drank heavily. She said he was very controlling. But she couldn’t leave him. She had nowhere else to go. He frightened her. He never hit you or your sister, but your mother was scared for your safety. She told us that he used to pay too much attention to some of the young girls in the village. She said he would sometimes bring patient records home at night and they were invariably the records of teenage girls. She said she had her suspicions about something terrible that he had done, but she had no proof. She wouldn’t say any more than that. We could only comply with her wishes. We had no additional powers beyond that.’
‘But if she didn’t want any more children after Emily …?’ I said.
‘It was your father,’ Janice said. ‘Your poor mother said that he had forced himself on her.’
‘He raped her?’
‘Your mother didn’t use that word. Back then, some men still thought they had certain rights within marriage. I think she was too scared to use the word “rape”.
My stomach convulsed. A sound left my throat and spluttered into the room. Janice let go of my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
I shook my head.
‘It’s OK.’
I was the product of a rape. An attack by my father on my mother. No love, just evil desire.
Janice must have read my mind.
‘She loved you, Christine,’ she said. ‘She loved you so much. I knew your mother. I was with her at the two most emotional moments in her life. There is nothing to compare with giving up your children. I have told you nothing but the truth today. I’ve kept nothing from you. She loved you.’
I couldn’t talk through the tears. I just nodded and patted her hand. I thought of my mother’s headstone, thought of Rame Head and thought of Barbara Stannard and Laura Evans. And in an instant I knew where I had seen Barbara Stannard’s name. It was in my father’s loft, one of the patient sheets in the boxes. And I bet Laura Evans was there too. That was the link between them. That was why they died. It wasn’t my mother at all. It was Richard.
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