Motherlove (13 page)

‘Here it is.' He fished out the key he wanted, gave her a big smile, patting the roof of a Mini. Lime green. ‘I figured, you've done so well… Like to give my little girl something for it all.'

Vicky stared at the car. ‘You're giving me this?'

‘Yes. Why not? Not much, I know.' He patted it again. Twelve years old. He had worked hard on the rust spots, done as good a job as he could. ‘But a little run-around, you know.'

Her throat caught. Not with gushing joy. She didn't know what she was feeling. A noose at her neck, snapping her back. ‘Why?'

‘Well, you work so hard and I'm that proud of you. Thought you deserved it. What's the point of running a garage if I can't find a car for my little girl?'

‘But I'm not your little girl.' She had to say it. ‘I'm adopted.'

Did he realise that this was a revelation to her? The focus of all her simmering bitterness? Apparently not. He must have assumed she'd always known. Gillian's business, that sort of stuff. ‘Well, I suppose. Keep forgetting. Just think of you as my little girl.'

It wasn't a remark that she could deal with. ‘You'd have preferred a boy, though, wouldn't you?'

‘Oh.' Terry scratched his head. ‘I don't know about that.'

Of course he would. He would have known what to do with a boy. Take him down the Rec every Saturday to play football. Help him build a train set. Terry was a simple soul who regarded women with respect and utter incomprehension. It was just the way he was. She couldn't blame him for that.

‘So, you like it then?' he asked.

‘It's…very nice.' And he was a nice man. Not her father, but a nice man, making a generous gift, to a child who wasn't really his and wasn't even a boy. ‘I don't know where my licence is.' Not true. It was on her shelf where it had been since the day she'd received it. First driving lesson on her seventeenth birthday; a present from her quasi-parents. That first lesson had been such a thrill, liberating. Then the thing had happened and nothing had been thrilling anymore. Not liberating, not even bearable. After that first joyous lesson she had forced herself to complete the course, taken her test and put her licence away. ‘Not even sure I can remember how to drive.'

‘Like riding a bike. You can't forget.' His face lit up. At last, something he could do with his little girl. Not football, not train sets, but something. ‘I'll take you out in it. Let you get the feel of it.'

She laughed, bit her lip, killing the mirth because she hadn't come home to laugh.

‘This afternoon? Col will be in—'

‘No.' She wanted to be back in control. ‘Tomorrow maybe. I've got things to do this afternoon. In town.'

‘More books, eh?'

‘People to see.'

iii

Kelly

‘Yeah, you can give us the details now.' The girl at the desk of the
Lyford Herald
pushed a notepad and pen at Kelly. Her job was to deal with classified ads, and her day was one long stream of adverts for unwanted sofas, Ford Fiestas, fridge freezers. Hard to work up a decent show of enthusiasm for any of it. She went back to another call while Kelly wrote her message.

‘
Lyford-Herald
-classified-ads-Emma-speaking-can-I-help-you?'

Kelly had poured through the classified section of last week's
Herald
in WHSmiths. Mostly cars, but two sunbeds and one set of disco lights. No hay bales and split logs, which was what she was used to. She'd looked at the
Evening News
too, but decided that a weekly paper would be a better bet. The
Herald
looked solid. Going since 1893, according to its banner. The sort of paper people would sit down to read properly, not just skim through and dump in the bin.

She smiled as she wrote. Did she know anything about newspaper readers? The nearest thing she read to a paper was the
Alternative World
news-sheet handed out at the wholefood store. Still psychology must just be common sense, and she had plenty of that. But not plenty of money, so she had to choose carefully where to put her ad, and this was it. The
Lyford Herald
.

‘There.' She pushed the notepad back at the bored Emma, who counted the words.

‘Wanted. Any girl born in Lyford and Stapledon General Hospital in the week March 13
th
-19
th
, 1990. Please contact…' She started to absorb the meaning. ‘This is legit, right? Nothing, you know…' She was wary. She'd got into trouble once before for accepting an ad for youth performances, which, when it was vetted, was promptly passed on to the police. ‘Kids. It's not some kind of – you know?'

Kelly wasn't entirely sure what the girl meant, but she recognised panic. ‘Not kids. We'd all be twenty-two.'

‘Oh yeah.' Emma grinned. She was only twenty-three herself.

Kelly explained, to put her mind at rest. ‘That's when I was born, see? 13
th
March. 1990. It turns out there was some kind of mix-up, because we've had tests, and I'm not really related to my mother, not genetically, even though my birth certificate says I am. So there must have been a mistake in the hospital.'

‘Oh, wow!'

‘Which wouldn't have mattered really, except my mum's sick, might need a new kidney eventually, and because I'm not related, I can't give her one. So I thought I could find out who the other baby was.'

‘Yeah!'

‘I thought, if I put an ad in the local paper, perhaps the other girl is still living in Lyford. It's worth a try. I can stay another week, maybe, and see what pops up.'

‘Right! So you're not from round here?'

‘Pembrokeshire. We moved to Wales when I was a baby.'

‘Oh, so you've come all the way to Lyford to search for this other girl.'

‘Yes. To ask at the hospital really, but since they won't help, I'm going to stay on for a few more days. Mum is staying with friends for a couple of weeks.'

‘Yes, I see.' Emma was a would-be cub reporter. She didn't like to jot down the details openly, but she was memorising fast. ‘So, okay. We'll get this in this week. You've just made the deadline. And can you let us know if anyone responds?'

‘Sure.' Kelly beamed. ‘I'll come back and tell you all about it.'

A good, useful visit; two girls made happy by a few random words.

CHAPTER 4

i

Heather

Heather Norris went into hospital on the 24
th
February, 1990. Saturday, just as she had calculated, although it was two weeks after the doctor's prediction. Barbara Norris, her mother-in-law, had been summoned the day before, when Heather had decided to clean the house and shift all the furniture. She had been like that before Bibs was born, so Martin decided it was a sign. He was smugly pleased with himself when she had the first pains.

‘I told you.' He rubbed his hands. ‘Just as well Mum's here. Better get Bibs.'

‘No. For God's sake, let him play. He won't have the first idea what's going on.'

‘He knows he's going to have a little brother or sister. Can't wait.'

‘Didn't show the slightest interest if you ask me.' She was determined to be argumentative, resenting the fuss that was about to mushroom around her. Her sheer bloody agony and being manhandled, legs akimbo, prodded and bullied and patronised by doctors and nurses who would insist on calling her Mother, as if her breeding function were all the identity she deserved.

‘Well, anyway, Mum's here to take care of him. I'll get the car out.'

‘Oh, no rush.' Heather plumped down, staking her claim to the sofa. A stupid move. It was too soft and deep; she'd be half an hour getting back out of it. ‘I've had a couple of twinges. Hours apart. It's going to be ages yet.'

But Martin was already calling Barbara, who was tidying Bibs' room. Tidying it properly because she alone knew how to tidy a child's bedroom effectively. Mother-in-law. There were worse, Heather supposed. Most of the time, when there was nothing fundamental to fight about, they got on very well. Barbara had patronised Heather as she would have done any stray kitten her son had brought home, hoping that he would lose interest quickly. With their marriage, she had accepted that this kitten was here to stay, and had better be treated with affectionate tolerance. She was never overtly critical about the way her poor son's wife cooked or ironed, or dusted, or brought up their child, even if the criticism was there, in every firm, authoritative gesture.

‘Now then, dear.' Barbara was in charge the moment she walked in, patting Heather on the head. No panic, no excitement, just a field marshall deploying troops. ‘Calm down, Martin darling. There's no need to rush round like a headless chicken. Have you phoned the hospital to say she'll be on her way? Heather dear, I suppose you are sure. Definite labour pains? Not just indigestion? Constipation?'

‘I do remember what it's like,' said Heather, heaving herself up. ‘And there's no rush. I think I'll make a cup of tea. Do you want some?'

‘Now dear, you just rest. I'll make it. Nice and strong. I may not have many talents but I do know how to make a
proper
cup of tea. Martin did say it would be today. You're lucky to have a husband who notices such things, but then he was always a sensitive boy. Caring. And we're both going to care for you now, so don't you worry about a thing.'

Barbara was already in the kitchen, determined to be mother. Shielding her poor sensitive son from the demanding needs of his flaky wife with her unnatural emotional outbursts. Barbara wasn't going to forget the fuss Heather had caused at Christmas. Other people could. The manager at Sainsbury's had decided that prosecuting an hysterical pregnant woman would be bad publicity, and the paramedics had decided, once she had calmed down, that if she let her GP sort her out she'd be fine. Just a bit stressed. Pregnant women often were.

Martin had been eager to forget, to get on with Christmas, to have fun with Bibs under the tree and not ever to mention all those terrible things Heather had let slip.

But Barbara, who had not even been there, had not forgotten. ‘Poor Heather can be – well, I wouldn't like to say unbalanced, but I'm afraid she's finding it very difficult to cope. We'll just have to keep an eye on things, make sure she doesn't fly off the handle again.'

It had worked, in a perverse way. It made Heather determined to remain calm, to cope. She was not going to lose her temper or her reason again. Not if it meant Barbara Norris wrestling her into a straitjacket. So while her mother-in-law made the tea, Heather dragged herself upstairs, and checked through the bag she had ready packed. Nightdresses, dressing gown, slippers, brush, toilet bag, books – and baby clothes; some of Bibs' old things, and some new. Like doll's outfits. Once upon a time she would have gone gooey at the sight of the oh-so-cute little bonnets, bibs and babygros. Now she could only picture endless months of non-stop washing, and the washing machine was threatening to pack up.

‘Heather?' Barbara appeared. ‘Now you don't need to be bothering with that. We'll sort out everything for you. I know just what a nursing mother needs.'

‘I'm already packed, Barbara. See? Totally prepared. Dib, dib, dib.'

‘Oh, good girl. Mind you, I'm sure I'll think of something you've forgotten. One always does. Not to worry; we'll be in to see you every day.'

‘I'm not in for a month, you know. It's my second, so they'll probably turf me out tomorrow.'

‘I wouldn't be so sure about that, dear.'

‘They're always short of beds.'

Barbara tutted. ‘We should have found a proper nursing home. You need time to rest. Believe me, I know.'

I know too, Heather swore to herself. She hated hospital, the smell, the lack of privacy, the discomfort, but hospital would mean having other people to take the baby, cook her meals, change her sheets; professionals, not interfering relatives trying to take over her home. As long as she was in hospital, she wouldn't have to worry about checking on her father or buying the milk or doing Martin's shirts or getting Bibs' tea. She could just lie and do nothing. But since Barbara thought she needed a week of doing nothing, Heather was determined to be in and out in twenty-four hours, just to prove her wrong.

Martin had phoned the hospital and was wanting to move, to get her safely inside. Bibs, aware that something was happening, sat down and screamed in terror. On another day, Heather would have fought for the right to comfort him. Now she let Barbara take charge. It would keep her occupied.

‘Poor Bibsy Wibsy, is it all too much for you? But don't worry, we still love you, oh yes we do. Granny will always love you, my special weshal boy.'

‘Go on, Bibs,' prayed Heather silently. ‘Throw up on her.' Ah. The pains again. Getting more frequent. Shit. She remembered what it was like, she'd said, but it wasn't true. She had forgotten what a screaming torture it was. Get it over with, for Christ's sake. Epidurals, gas, any damn thing. Somebody just put her under and prise the bloody thing out of her.