She had a lot to thank Olivia for.
She began to puff for breath as she reached the very top of Lansdown Hill. She could have caught the bus but the walk kept her fit and it was a good chance to mull over the day and unwind. She really only caught the bus if it was pouring with rain. She turned right into the little row of artisan cottages. They used to house the workmen who built the grand crescents but were hot property now. Theirs was in the middle, small but perfectly formed.
She opened the front door, swooped the post off the doormat and smiled as Ron and Hermione, one ginger, one tortoiseshell, bore down on her, conducting an elaborate maypole dance around her legs.
‘Hang on, you two. Let me get rid of my coat.’
She hung up her yellow mac on the peg in the hall and walked through into the living/dining room then into the kitchen. She chucked the envelopes on the table and grabbed the box of cat food, shaking the terracotta lumps into two bowls by the back door. Then she flicked on the kettle, sat down at the table and opened the mail.
A reminder for her professional insurance. A quote for the tiny conservatory extension they were considering to increase the house’s value: she took one look at the figure, grimaced and pushed it to one side. The third envelope was plain, and she couldn’t decipher the postmark.
She unfolded the sheet, her eyes dancing over the words.
She had to read it twice to make sure.
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.
Once, she had dreamed nearly every day of getting a letter like this. But as the years slid past, her hope had faded. She told herself that she had no control over when or if it might happen, so there was no point in expending energy wondering and waiting. It had taken all her reserves to come to terms with that realisation and put her longing to one side. She knew it made her vulnerable, to flirt with the past, and it was best laid to rest. But although people were kind about it, they could never fully understand that gaping hole inside her, and the desperation to know the truth. How could you understand, unless it had happened to you?
Thirty years had been a landmark. Thirty years had been a bad day. She had put on a brave face in the morning, not letting on that she’d blocked out her diary and spent the day by the river. She’d written a poem, folded it into a boat and thrown it into the water, watching it float downstream, letting it take her grief and her memories with it. Someone at a support group she’d been to once had taught her the trick and it had helped, a tiny bit. By the time she got home, no one would have known she had spent the day in tears.
But it was here. The letter she had dreamed of had arrived. She read the words over and over again.
Her daughter had contacted the register and wanted to get in touch.
Could Emily confirm she still wanted contact and supply her email address.
Her heart was pounding. She had never felt such an adrenalin rush as joy and fear and doubt welled up inside her. Questions came at her, pounding her brain. Why now? Why now, after all this time? What did she want? What was going to happen? Would they be able to meet?
Her mind tried to conjure up an image, as it had done so many times. A thirty-year-old jigsaw made from pieces of Emily and Jonathan. She remembered how long his curls had been, reaching beyond his collar. And the kindness in his grey eyes that had first drawn her to him so long ago. Time and again she had tried different versions, but it was impossible to know which bits Mother Nature had chosen.
Was the answer within reach? Was this the start of her dream coming true?
With a stab of disappointment she realised it was Friday. She wouldn’t be able to contact the office until Monday to get the information to them. A whole weekend of agony. Keeping the secret to herself. This wasn’t a secret she was ready to share yet. There was too much at stake. Too many questions. Too many decisions. She needed time to take it in. She had, after all, done this against all advice.
‘You must move on, my darling. Lay it to rest.’
She heard a key in the lock. She flicked a glance at the clock. She hadn’t expected anyone back this early. Swiftly she folded up the letter, put it back in its envelope and tucked it into her rucksack. For some reason, she smoothed down her hair, as if that would make her look less ruffled, then rushed over to the now-boiled kettle to make a pot of tea, trying to look as if something momentous hadn’t just happened.
Thirty years. Over half her lifetime.
She could still remember the day she had realised. It felt like yesterday.
24
1987
Of course, Emily didn’t work out the real reason she felt sick at first. She thought it was her reaction to Jonathan’s letter and so did her mother. Vivian threatened Emily with the doctor, and in the end she decided it was better to be at school than lie in bed moping and be badgered.
She didn’t tell anyone at school about Jonathan. Instead, she imagined what it would have been like if things had been different. She could have regaled her friends with stories of their grand passion, like Sandy in Grease telling the Pink Ladies about Danny Zuko. She would have chatted to him on the phone in the evening, made plans to meet up, sent him mixtapes and packets of Haribo. She could have walked around the school feeling proud and happy to be loved, confident in her own skin, with that special glow of a teenage girl in love.
Instead, she felt foolish. And ashamed. And heartbroken. Her confidence trickled away to nothing. Her grades slid, and the headmistress told her she could no longer consider Cambridge if they continued to go down. She cut off all her hair, to match the ugliness of how she felt. She looked like a pale-faced, thin little boy, a Dickensian urchin. Every time she thought about Jonathan, which was 99 per cent of the time, she wanted to be sick. Sometimes she was. She lost about half a stone.
Christmas came and went. In the new year, Olivia Bembridge took her to one side before her cello lesson one day.
‘I’m very worried about you, Emily. You’re looking very tired.’
‘I feel sick all the time. I can’t eat.’
Olivia frowned. She had been wondering if Emily was anorexic. But something else had occurred to her. ‘Emily, you couldn’t be pregnant, could you?’
Emily stared at her. Her little face was pinched and pale. She swallowed. ‘Maybe,’ she said in a very small voice. She’d tried not to think about it, but as each week passed the likelihood had got bigger and bigger. Now she’d been asked the question, she had to admit the possibility.
Olivia chewed on her thumbnail. She felt a ripple of doubt run through her. How should she handle this? She was very fond of Emily. She was probably her favourite pupil, although not her best.
‘We better go and get you a test.’ They could miss her lesson. She could get to the chemist and back in an hour.
Emily chewed her lip. ‘What happens if I am?’
‘Well. You’ll have to make some choices.’ Olivia put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry for now. Wait here and I’ll nip and get one. Go and practise your scales.’
Olivia drove to the chemist and back, then waited outside the loo while Emily did the test. She came out of the cubicle five minutes later.
‘Positive,’ she said, with a wobble in her voice.
‘Right.’ Olivia tried to think. Emily was over sixteen, so not a child. She could take her to her doctor to discuss the options. ‘Do you know when your last period was?’
Emily shut her eyes. ‘In the summer. Probably.’
‘In the summer?’ Olivia’s tone sharpened.
‘I met a boy. At music school.’
‘And you slept with him?’
Emily’s voice wobbled. ‘We tried to be careful.’
In all the thrill of discovering each other, perhaps once or twice they had not been careful enough.
‘Didn’t you worry when you missed your period?’
; Emily shrugged. ‘I’ve always been a bit irregular.’
‘But this means you’re over five months. It doesn’t leave you with many options.’
Olivia didn’t want to spell out that it was too late for an abortion, but Emily knew that’s what she meant.
‘I couldn’t get rid of it,’ she burst out. ‘I couldn’t get rid of his baby.’
And she burst into tears and told Olivia the whole story, how magical and special it had all been and how it had come to an abrupt end.
‘Oh, you poor love.’ Olivia’s heart broke for the girl. And she was furious with this boy Jonathan for luring her in and then being so brutally selfish. She felt a surge of protectiveness towards her, and hoped this wasn’t going to disrupt her future.
Emily tried to gather her thoughts. ‘My parents are going to go mad.’
‘Do you want me to come with you? While you tell them?’
Emily thought for a moment. It seemed cowardly to hide behind Miss Bembridge. And not really fair on her parents, who would be mortified. She would have to brace herself for their wrath.
‘Thank you. But I’ll do it by myself.’
Olivia hugged her. ‘If you need me, just ring. You’ve got my home number.’
Emily went home that evening feeling confused. On the one hand, she had living proof of the passion she had shared with Jonathan. A talisman. A little bit of her felt as if the baby was her consolation prize.
On the other hand, she was rigid with terror. Single mothers were less of a scandal than they used to be, but schoolgirl pregnancies were still looked down on. Getting pregnant at her age was seen as a ticket to a free council flat and benefits.
The school wouldn’t be happy. And her parents would be devastated.
She didn’t have the courage to tell them both together. So she told her mother, in the kitchen over breakfast, after a spoonful of Cheerios had nearly choked her, her mouth was so dry.
‘Mum,’ she said. ‘I need to tell you something. I don’t know what to do.’
Vivian frowned. She was in the middle of poaching an egg for Neal, flipping the water over the yolk to seal it.
‘What is it, darling?’
Emily put her spoon down. She just had to say it. There was no way of breaking the news gently. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh God,’ said Vivian. She turned off the pan of water and came to sit down on the stool opposite. She leaned forward, her voice lowered, looking around for Emily’s father. ‘It’s OK. We can sort it out. Your father doesn’t need to know. Don’t say anything, for God’s sake. We can make the arrangements.’
Emily shook her head. ‘I don’t think we can.’
Vivian shot her a look and leaned even further in, grabbing Emily’s hands.
‘Emily. This will ruin your life. It’s the only solution.’
‘It’s too late, Mum.’ Emily’s hand went instinctively to her stomach. How strange. Now she knew, she could sense the little being inside her.
Vivian seemed to crumple as she put two and two together. ‘It was that boy. That awful piano boy.’
‘He wasn’t awful. It wasn’t his fault.’
‘Of course it was.’
Emily opened her mouth to protest further, but then realised that blaming Jonathan was the only way her mother was going to cope with this. And she needed her mum.
‘What am I going to do, Mummy?’
‘We’ll just have to ride it out, together.’
‘What about Dad?’
Vivian paused, looking at her daughter. ‘Leave your father to me.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Em, this isn’t what I wanted for you. But don’t worry. We can deal with it.’
This wasn’t what Emily had expected. She’d thought there would be hysteria, tears, recriminations. She felt grateful. And she felt more love for her mum than she’d ever felt, which was a surprise. She’d thought this might drive them apart.
‘We’ll speak to the midwife, and the social services,’ Vivian went on. ‘There’s no need to involve anyone else. This is a family matter.’
‘Social services?’ said Emily.
‘You do realise,’ said Vivian. ‘You’ll have to give the baby up?’
Emily put her hand on her tummy again. That primal need to protect. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you can’t keep it, darling. I can’t see your father allowing you to bring it up here. Can you?’
‘No …’ Emily couldn’t imagine it. A tiny baby in the spare room at Manor Close? It was unthinkable.
‘What else would you do? Get a council flat? What on earth would you live on? You won’t be able to do your A levels, or get any qualifications. And how would you work with a baby in tow? You’d have to live off the dole. That’s no life, for you or the baby.’
Of course her mother was right. Emily wasn’t sure what she had imagined was going to happen. A schoolgirl mum with a tiny baby had very few options. She wanted to cry, but she felt too numb.
If only Jonathan hadn’t cut her off. They might have managed it together. He could have worked. Emily could have looked after him and the house and the baby and maybe gone to college part-time, eventually—
But Jonathan wasn’t in the picture. Finally, the tears came as she remembered him, and how close she had felt to him, and how that must have been an illusion.
‘I know it’s sad, darling.’ Vivian’s voice was soft. ‘Terribly sad. But you’ll manage. I’ve got you.’
She pulled her daughter in tight. Emily felt a huge wave of relief that her mother was standing by her. She’d thought she was going to deal with her predicament on her own. But Vivian had a look of determination about her. She was going to protect her daughter at all costs.
In that moment Emily saw the truth about her mother’s existence. It was almost as if Vivian had waited all Emily’s life to rise to the occasion. A respite from making her husband’s poached egg and her daughter’s packed lunch. A chance to really matter. And she wanted Emily to get more out of life than she had. A baby would take all her opportunities away.
‘Thank you, Mum,’ she said.
‘You’re my daughter. It’s my job to look after you, whatever happens.’
How those very words were going to ring round Emily’s head in the days to come.
‘What about the boy?’ asked her father, when Vivian had broken the news and told him, in no uncertain terms, that what was done was done and they must be supportive. ‘Shouldn’t he be told?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Vivian was adamant. ‘What on earth could he do to help?’
‘Well, it’s his responsibility too.’
Emily didn’t want him told either. She wasn’t going to use a baby to force him to recognise her. And she knew that by this time Jonathan had probably received his offer for the Royal College. She wasn’t going to ruin that for him.
Her own school wouldn’t countenance her staying on to do her exams. It didn’t send out the right message to the other girls, to have a pregnant pupil. For the second time, she was being edged out of a school when she wasn’t really all that rebellious. She’d always been conscientious and hard-working, but somehow events had conspired against her and made her look like some kind of wayward lost cause.
‘You can go to the college next September and start again,’ said Vivian. ‘You’ll only lose a year. It might seem like a long time to you but it’s nothing.’ Her lips tightened. ‘I am not going to let this ruin your life. I want so much for you.’
Emily’s friends were shocked when they found out she was pregnant, then thrilled, then secretly admiring. Her pregnancy gave her a certain cachet. She was a novelty. They visited her quite often at first. But gradually the visits tailed off, because she wasn’t very exciting company, and they were far too busy getting tans under Jackie’s mum’s tanning bed and planning where they’d go on holiday after t
heir A levels: a tour of the Greek islands. They told her she could come too, for she’d be a free agent again by then. Emily couldn’t imagine it. She was getting bigger and bigger, and the baby was squirming around, becoming a reality.
She received wonderful and kind care, once Vivian had taken her to the doctor. The system took over, and Emily felt comforted by the rhythm of examinations and her little red booklet. A social worker took on her case and talked her through all the options without her parents present.
‘This is your decision, Emily. It’s important for you to know that.’
She couldn’t look after the baby alone. Of that Emily was certain. She had seen other young mums in Worcester, and they seemed to take to it with ease, but they had boyfriends, friends in the same boat, family who mucked in. They knew the rules and all the tricks. Emily wouldn’t have a clue where to start.
She asked Olivia if she thought she was making the right decision.
‘I think adoption can be beneficial, for both sides,’ said Olivia carefully, not wanting to influence Emily unduly, but not wishing to distress her either. ‘And perhaps it’s the best thing for you.’
Her cello lessons continued, for Emily was able to go to Olivia’s house. She loved it there: her house was tiny and messy and smelled of cinnamon. And the music was a huge comfort. She felt it resounding through her, and the baby jumped about in response. It got more difficult as her bump got bigger, but Emily struggled on, her bow almost at arm’s length.
Her social worker Deirdre was robustly reassuring. She didn’t fuss over her, or use any euphemisms, either in terms of what to expect from the birth or when discussing the adoption. Emily felt reassured that it was the right thing to do, especially when Deidre told her how much joy she would be giving to the couple they had tentatively found for the baby.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 15
