The English American (4 page)

M
UM AND
D
AD’S HOUSE WAS BUILT IN
1470 and used to be a farmhouse. It still has parts of its original thatched roof and all its dark wooden beams, a long oak staircase, and large, lovely windows that look out onto a massive maple tree, a glorious green lawn, and a large greenhouse, inside which are rows of tomato plants and a small swimming pool.

The house, called Little Tew, sits alone, surrounded by wheat-fields, about three miles from Peaseminster. If you climb up the stone path to the hill at the back of the house, you can see Gately Castle nestled amidst miles and miles of Sussex countryside—flat farmland, with bales of hay neatly dotted around in squares, green trees and hedges on yellow ground in the summer.

There’s a chalk pit on the South Downs, behind the house, where I used to go and smoke cigarettes when I was sixteen. Men in checked caps and green Wellington boots breed pheasants up there in the spring, so they can shoot them dead in the winter.

The house itself is surrounded by a four-hundred-year-old gray stone wall, with moss growing between its bricks. The wall is high enough to block out the occasional car that drives past on the country road outside. But it’s not high enough to block out the horseback riders, who can be seen from the neck up, trotting up and down, backs straight, hard hats perfectly in place.

I drive down the last two miles of narrow country lane and through the wooden gates into my parents’ driveway. It’s a warm day and I’m not wearing any shoes. When I get out of Typhoo, the sharp gravel stones hurt my bare feet, as they always do.

Mum and Dad are on the porch, talking to my cousin Neville, who is staying for the weekend.

It’s Neville who will think nothing of making an eight-hour drive up to Scotland because I have a sudden longing to stand on the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle and take a walk up Arthur’s Seat. It’s Neville who bought me a keyboard with volume control when I was at university so I could get out of bed and play without disturbing anybody in the middle of the night.

Neville’s parents are currently living in Pakistan, and we’re the only family he has in England, so Mum and Dad have practically adopted him too.

“Hallo Pippadee!” Neville says, hacking away at a fat, stubborn carrot. He’s been helping Mum with the vegetables for tonight’s beef stew. “I heard you had a spot of engine trouble on the M25,” he says, referring to my latest car fiasco. I’d called the tow chap, insisting the engine had fallen out, because I heard a clunk. It turned out I’d run out of petrol.

“I need to talk to Mum,” I say.

“Oooooo. Boyfriend troubles.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Whatever it is, it’s private.”

Mum laughs. Her eyes light up when she laughs. “Go on. Off you go,” she says, pushing her six-foot nephew off the porch.

“Miles, Miles, it’s always about Miles,” he says. “He loves you, you siren, he hasn’t eaten in weeks…”

“Go
away
!”

Neville makes a kissy-kissy face and retreats into the sitting room.

Mum brings two cups of tea and a plate of Swiss rolls on a tray from the kitchen. My heart is beating wildly. I have no idea how to begin.

“I can’t believe how warm it is,” I say.

“Daddy and I nearly went swimming last week,” she says. “Unbelievable.”

The teacup clicks back in the saucer. I can hear the low hum of the swimming-pool heater in the corner of the porch. I can smell sweetly scented wallflowers through the screen window.

I devour a Swiss roll, crumple the wrapper into a little gold ball, and flick it into the plant pot.

“Oh darling, I do wish you wouldn’t do that. Boris knows exactly where to find your wrappers, and you know silver foil isn’t good for dogs.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Well, take it out. Honestly.”

“Sorry,” I say. I reach to take the wrapper out of the plant pot and send my teacup flying.

“I’m sorry!” I say. “Oh God, I’m so sorry!” The tea has spilled all over the carpet. Mum rushes into the kitchen to get a cloth, as she has so many times before.

“I’ll do it!” she says. “Just sit down, Pippa, so you can’t do any more damage.”

I sit in the red armchair that belonged to Granny H. before she died. I watch Mum clean up the mess, feeling guilty and incompetent.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“It’s all right, darling,” she says. “Really.”

It’s not. I still drive Mum crazy with my clumsiness. I hear Charlotte’s favorite quip in my head: “Pippa can’t walk across a room without spilling at least something.” It’s said with affection, and without exaggeration.

The tea cleared up, Mum and I sit for a moment, looking out over her lovely pink and yellow rose garden. Every third evening or so, Mum deadheads the roses. Then she puts them in a red plastic bowl and throws them on the compost heap, in the northeast corner of the garden, where the stone walls meet.

I’ve never been so nervous. Mum looks so content, sitting on the porch in her sunglasses, taking the tea cosy off her Brown Betty teapot, and pouring in more hot water from the stainless steel jug she’s used for this purpose ever since I can remember.

“Gemma! Gemma!” Dad’s voice calls in from the sitting room, where he can often be found, earphones on, conducting an imaginary orchestra with a pencil when he thinks no one is looking. Today he’s watching the rugby. “It’s Scotland five, Wales nil!”

“Wonderful, darling,” Mum says. Then, turning toward me, she asks, “What is it, Pippadee? What’s wrong?”

“Well, nothing’s wrong exactly,” I say.

“Is it Miles?”

“Oh no,” I say. “I’m over that. Really.” And I am. Sort of.

“Scotland seven, Gemma! Can you believe it? Scotland seven!” Dad’s voice again. Mum stands up, gently shuts the door, and sits back down again.

She is waiting for me to speak. I’m trying to relax, but in truth I can hardly breathe. Mum takes a sip of her tea and waits.

“Last night…,” I say, finally. There’s a pause.

“Yes?”

I can’t speak.

“Last night…?” Mum repeats, looking at me intently over the rim of her teacup.

“Well,” I manage to say, finally, “last night, on a sort of impulse, I called the adoption agency you got me from in New York.”

I take in a deep breath and let it out again.

“Oh yes,” Mum says, utterly unruffled.

“Well, I called just to find out what I’d have to do, if ever I wanted to find out who my biological parents were. And, well…” I don’t want to hurt her. God, I don’t want to hurt her. “Well…,” I say.

And then it comes out. All of it. I tell her about my conversation with the agency and about the non-identifying information they said they’d send. Mum sits there, listening carefully. I can’t see into her eyes. She’s still wearing sunglasses.

“Oh, Mum, I won’t do any of this if you’d rather I didn’t. If you’d be upset by it in any way. But I did want to tell you what happened,” I say, unable to stop the tears.

“It’s fine, darling,” she says. “Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

“I won’t do it if you have any problem with it…”

“Of course you must do it,” she says. “Of course you must! If you and—and this woman…Darling, listen to me. Good heavens, there isn’t enough love in this world as it is, Pippa. Why would it matter if you and this woman love each other? Nothing can replace the years we’ve had together.”

“Of course not!” I gush. “Of course not! And, anyway, I might hate her, if she’s still alive…which it appears she might be. Oh Mum!” I look at my mother across the porch. “Is it really okay with you?”

“Of course it is, darling, don’t be silly. Anyway,” she says, pouring another cup of tea, “it shouldn’t really matter what Daddy and I think.”

“But it does,” I say.

“Well that’s nice, darling. But you’re a grown-up now. You can do what you want. And it’s fine. Of course it is.”

The next day, we go on a walk around Siddenton, a small fishing village by the sea. I walk on ahead, along the path by the sea, looking out over the Mirrors and Lasers and Toppers sailing about in the harbor. I’ve never liked sailing or had much in common with the people who love it, including my father, who is now walking beside me.

He’s wearing the light green Pringle sweater I gave him at Christmas, his favorite shorts, and dark green socks, pulled up to just under his knees. Despite the fact that he’s two inches shorter than I am, he walks fast, in long strides, like I do. But there the similarities end.

“Mummy told me about your decision last night, Pippa.”

My heart feels tight.

“Have you really thought this through? I mean, think about it, Pip. What kind of a woman would give up her child?”

I look at my father’s worried face. I want to cry and tell him it has all been a dreadful mistake and I don’t want to pursue it at all. But I can’t.

“You’re opening Pandora’s box,” Dad says.

“I know, Dad,” I say. “But unless I do this I’m never going to know why I am who I am.”

He looks at me in the slightly baffled way he usually looks at me.

“But you’re Pippa.”

“Oh Dad, you know I’m different from you, Mum, and Charlotte. I always have been.”

Before he can answer, something wet and smelly dashes past us.

“No, Boris!” Dad says, chasing after the dog. “Not in the mud! No, Boris! No!”

As Boris and Dad charge along the path above the sea, I walk behind them, breathing in the sea air as deeply as I can. A gull swoops past us and out over the ocean. Dad returns, holding Boris by the collar.

“I had a dream last night,” he says, straining to keep Boris at his side. “I dreamed that Mummy had her head chopped off.”

“Oh Dad!” I say. “Dad! I’m not looking for a replacement mother! Nothing could replace Mum, ever! I just need to know.”

Dad pulls Boris toward the car.

I know he’s right. I will be opening Pandora’s box. But I’m utterly relieved he hasn’t asked me not to do it, despite his obvious misgivings.

Because I know that, for me, not doing this would mean a kind of death.

F
ULL OF GUILT
,
I return to London and wait with intense anticipation for news from the adoption agency in New York.

Days, then weeks pass.

I can’t make any sort of order out of the chaos in my head, my heart, or my room. Each night I have to slog through piles of clothes and chocolate wrappers to get to my bed. As each day passes, the waiting gets more and more difficult and the stacks of debris get higher and higher.

Always trying to drag me into his and Charlotte’s never-ending social life, Rupert invites me to a drinks party. I go, because, as I predicted, he’s asked my only sister to marry him, and she’s said yes. When she calls me with the news I tell her I’m thrilled for her. Because that’s the appropriate response, and she seems so happy about it.

Actually to me the whole concept of marriage is even more alarming than falling in love. I don’t want to have to spend my precious life doing everything I can to make sure the man I’ve married doesn’t leave me. Looking at Rupert and Charlotte holding hands under the chandelier, I try to imagine what it might be like to be able to trust someone completely. But I can’t. I try to picture myself having children. But I can’t. It does occur to me that it might be nice, one day, to produce children with someone. Children that come from you. And him.

But first you have to find the “him.”

And in my case, if you want to know anything about the people whose DNA your children would share, you have to find the “her” as well.

The party is excruciating, but I’ve promised Charlotte I’ll behave myself and stay as long as I can stand it. The girls are all called Fiona and spend the evening drinking Pimm’s and eating warm prunes wrapped in bacon, talking about Becks, Kate Moss, and Princess Diana, who one of the Fionas’ mothers shared a dormitory with at West Heath School.

“Mum says she wasn’t shy at all! She was really bossy! She used to refuse to dole out pudding to people who didn’t kowtow to her.”

“Prince Charles will make a fabulous king,” Fiona says. “He’s sooooo funny. I heard him give a speech once, at school. He flew down onto the games field in his red helicopter—very glam. And his opening line—wait for it, Fiona—was ‘I hope you infants enjoy your infancy as much as we adults enjoy our adultery.’ We all thought it was very daring, considering Camilla and everything.”

Aching with boredom, I leave as soon as I can and run home to eat chocolate, have a bath, and read my book.

Everyone knows that law, don’t they? It applies to the job you’ve been waiting to hear about, the phone call you’ve been waiting for from the boy you’re obsessed by. Apparently it applies to the letter from the adoption agency you came from too. The moment you stop thinking about it,
plop
, there it comes.

It’s been five long weeks since I made the phone call, and I’ve just finished savoring the chocolate sludge at the bottom of a glass of Nesquik—when I pick up the pile of mail and see the airmail envelope from America.

Inside is a letter, yellow with age, dated April 25, 1978, the day before I was born. My heart leaps when I see the handwriting, which slopes energetically to the right, with the
f
’s and the
p
’s curling down past the next line and back up again. Some people might have trouble deciphering it. But I won’t. The handwriting that covers the paper looks very like mine.

All identifying information has been deleted, but, in my trembling hands, I hold my first ever communication from the woman who gave me life.

The next two paragraphs have been blacked out.