Another Mother: a gripping psychological family drama Page 5

  ‘Oh, Lu. If you only knew how many years I’ve waited for this moment,’ she says, a tremor in her voice.

  I open my mouth, but unexpected anger shocks me into silence. I want to say, ‘Then why did you give me away in the first place?’ What was wrong with me? Make her tell me everything right there and then. But that would be cruel, and I don’t really mean it anyway, do I? Anger still has my tongue. For God’s sake! This wasn’t a scenario I had pictured and I’m not sure what to do. Many of the meetings envisaged had us both hugging, as we were, and me feeling an overwhelming rush of love for her; which I’m not. A wash of confusion rises from my depths and I suck in a deep breath to calm the waters. At last I say, ‘I can’t believe it’s happening, but I’m so glad it is.’ At least that’s mostly the truth.

  Mellyn nods, holds me at arm’s length. ‘Let me look at you properly,’ she whispers, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. That wasn’t a good idea; her hand brushes against her chest and smears mascara across her white linen tunic dress, but she just laughs and shrugs. ‘My goodness, we look identical. You’re younger and prettier, of course, but you’re my daughter alright.’

  I think ‘identical’ is pushing it big time, but under the circumstances I’ll not dispute it. ‘We do look similar.’

  ‘More than similar. I’ll show you some pictures of me at your age and you’ll see I’m right.’

  Is there a bit of an edge to her voice or is it just nerves? Into an uncomfortable silence I offer, ‘I’m sure you are – it’s all so surreal, don’t you think?’

  She raises her hands and an array of bangles clink together as they fall down her arms. ‘It’s just mad – I feel like I’m dreaming!’

  She gives me the biggest smile then, and the tension between us, real or imagined, disappears. I mirror her smile and she slips her arm through mine. A rush of warmth dislodges the discomfort in my chest and at last I start to feel a bit more like I thought I should. ‘Now, come in properly and relax, you must be shattered after the drive.’

  The inside of the cottage is just as lovely as the outside. Whitewashed stone walls are hung with seascapes, and a ship’s wheel and a wooden lighthouse accompanied by a seagull sit in alcoves that face the quaint mullion windows and the sea beyond. A fireplace piled with logs draws the eye to the centre of the room and a real lobster pot is situated to one side of it.

  The far wall has a well-stocked bookshelf and wine rack, and on the stripped oak floor a few good quality rugs in reds and deep greens give warmth to the walls. To complete the picture, two plump red leather sofas have pride of place opposite the fire.

  It should have looked like a holiday let trying too hard, but it doesn’t. Winter in this room would be perfect: me sitting by the roaring fire with a glass of wine, feet up and listening to the wind whistling outside. I tell myself that this is a little bit previous to say the least, and I tell Mellyn how beautiful her home is, and then follow her into the kitchen.

  Though small, the kitchen is well equipped and bright. Lemon and white walls complement the ash cupboards and brown granite worktops. Light grey tiles on the floor draw everything together and the window faces a lovely little side garden burgeoning with wild flowers. I think I glimpse a smudge of blue through yellow honeysuckle at the end of the lawn. ‘Is that the sea?’ I ask Mellyn and point down the garden.

  ‘Yes, just a corner view, and if you stick your head through the flowers and crick your neck you can see the harbour too.’ She laughs and points to the kettle. ‘Want a drink now, or do you want to see the rest of the place?’

  ‘Oh, I’d love a quick tour before I sit down. My bum’s numb from sitting all day.’

  ‘Yes, and my steep steps will give your thighs a good workout,’ she says, beckoning me towards the rickety wooden staircase.

  For a two-bedroom cottage it feels very spacious. The master bedroom is pale blue and has truly stunning views from the dormer across the rooftops to the harbour and sea. A glance round the door along the hall reveals a modern bathroom with a shower cubicle and a bath, and the second bedroom is decorated in a warm cinnamon. The view from the window shows me the garden to the left and to the front, down the hill towards the town.

  I turn from the window and look at Mellyn. ‘This house is just perfect. How long have you lived here?’

  She puts her head on one side and thinks for a moment. ‘It has to be five, no, nearly six years. Let’s go back down and have that tea and we can catch up on the last thirty.’

  I follow her downstairs and wonder how much of my history would match the fantasies I’d had in my head for the last twenty-three.

  7

  Oh, to be swimming in the sea instead of sitting behind an old creaky reception counter that smelled of too many full English breakfasts and other people’s holiday sweat.

  Rosie Green watched yet another happy couple pass by the door in the indecently bright sunlit street, carrying an assortment of beach towels, Frisbees and picnic lunches. Everyone else always seemed to be having a better time than her lately. In fact, more than lately. If she were honest, which she was wont to be – even to the point of destruction – she never seemed to have what you’d call a great time.

  Yes, she was an invaluable member of staff here at Pebble House; in fact, the whole place would grind to a halt without her, and her bosses relied on her. Many, many people relied on her: the success of countless holidays that people had scrimped and saved for, longed for all year, depended on her. That was something, wasn’t it? More than something. She had her own flat, rented, but a girl had to start somewhere, and she had friends, well, one or two, and her parents and brother loved her, didn’t they? What more could she ask for?

  ‘Rosie, did you clean number twelve yet? I told you an hour ago that a guest rang and asked if we had a room at short notice.’

  That answered her question. The more she could ask for was not being spoken to like a downtrodden below stairs skivvy in Victorian England. She might be invaluable, but she wasn’t valued as a person by Alan and Nadine, the couple that ran the place. Alan darkened the door to the dining room like a Hammer Horror creature, all glary eyes and upside-down smile. The high-pitched strains of a violin stabbing the air and knife slicing through a shower curtain was all that was missing.

  ‘Yes, I did it straight away.’ Her flat monotone and folded arms signalled ‘Back off, shit face’. Or at least she hoped they did.

  ‘Right,’ Alan muttered through tight lips; he strode over and spun the booking register round to face him. Obviously not a great reader of back-off signals. ‘And we have another guest in later this evening, don’t we? Yes, Lucinda Lacey, a woman on her own.’

  ‘Why ask, if you know? There it is in black and white on the register.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Not sure why you need to be so surly, Rosie. Just checking everything is in order. Her room ready?’

  ‘Of course. I do my job thoroughly, as well you know.’ Rosie shifted her gaze from his nasty little face and out into the street again before she gave in to the urge to slap it. ‘If you don’t think so, then get someone else.’

  ‘Oh dear. I can see you’re in a mood again, so I’ll leave you to it.’ Alan clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and marched off.

  What did he mean, again? Cheeky swine. She noticed that he didn’t tell her to be politer or tell her off though, did he? No, because he would worry that she’d bugger off and then he and Nadine would actually have to do some work. Oh yes, they knew when they were on to a good thing, alright.

  Rosie glanced at her watch. Lucinda Lacey had phoned this morning to confirm her booking and said she’d check in around seven. It was now four thirty and Rosie was looking forward to meeting her. There had been something about the woman’s voice that she had warmed to. She had an easy manner and they’d shared a joke about the weather and the traffic at this time of year. Was she here on business or for a holiday? That was something she’d find out over the course of the week, she expect
ed.

  Rosie walked over to the door that led outside and leaned against the sun-warmed wall to watch the passers-by. How sad was she? Looking forward to meeting a guest she’d only spoken to on the phone, warmed to, just because they’d had a laugh for a few minutes? Perhaps Alan had been right when he said that she was in a mood again. Despite what she’d told herself about being useful and responsible, she had to admit that her career – such as it was – wasn’t enough.

  Lately she’d brushed off feelings of listlessness, loneliness and not belonging. Her head had argued with the daft ideas her heart whispered to it late at night about finding the ‘right one’, settling down and maybe one day even starting her own business. Just all silly flights of fancy. Finding the right one was a concept peddled by media and romance novels. There was no right one, just people settling for each other and muddling through life the best they could.

  As Rosie turned to go back to reception, another young couple walked past, arms about each other’s shoulders, laughing and looking into each other’s eyes as if they never wanted to look away. She sighed. Perhaps muddling shouldn’t be sniffed at.

  8

  ‘I baked a cake. Hope you like coffee and walnut,’ Mellyn says, placing a tin on the table. She takes the lid off and watches my face carefully.

  I peer into the tin. The smell is intense and delicious, and the cake looks to have at least four layers. ‘Thanks! Yes, I do – and my goodness, that must have taken some making.’

  ‘It did, but it’s not every day that my long-lost daughter comes around for tea, is it?’ She laughs, takes the cake to the counter and begins to cut it.

  I watch her back and take a swallow of tea. I feel uncomfortable again because of what she’d said. I don’t like the flippant way she said it either.

  I hadn’t been long lost. She had given me away and hadn’t tried to find me. I’d found out that in the last ten years or so, natural parents were allowed to search for adoptees through approved agencies or social services. Surely, she must have known this.

  I blow across the surface of the tea and release some of the tension building in my gut. I’m angry with myself for feeling like this, picking her up on every little word. The poor woman must feel as nervous and awkward as I do, probably more, as she was the one who put me up for adoption. I give her my warmest smile and take the huge slice of cake she hands me.

  She joins me at the table and we both take a big bite. I like the fact that we attack the cake and don’t mess about nibbling it out of politeness. Cakes like this need appreciation. ‘Oh gosh, this is delicious,’ I say, dabbing a napkin to my mouth.

  ‘One of my finest, I have to admit.’ Mellyn’s eyes hold a hint of pride and a smile. ‘So, I’m sure you have lots to ask me – fire away.’

  God. That’s a tough one. Where to start? I point to my bulging cheeks to give myself thinking time. I decide the best approach is to continue from where we started upstairs. Perhaps the more important questions will come later. ‘You were saying that you moved here nearly six years ago. What made you leave St Austell?’

  Mellyn twists her mouth and looks at me. ‘It is a very sad story, actually.’ She pushes her half-eaten cake to one side and looks out of the window. Then she turns back to me, blinks a few times and swallows hard.

  Marvellous. I thought I’d start with something straightforward, and now it looks to be the opposite. ‘Oh, sorry. Please don’t answer if you’d rather not.’

  ‘No, I’ll tell you. There’ll be some really tough questions I’ll have to answer today, so I’d better get used to it.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure.’

  She nods and says, ‘I moved here after my parents died – your grandparents. They died in a car crash on the way to do some Christmas shopping. I was supposed to be going with them, but I went to meet a friend at the last minute, or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.’

  Oh, dear God. I want to stop her. The kitchen’s too hot; the walls are closing in – I feel trapped. How could she just spring something like that on me without warning? The cake has become a cloying lump in my mouth, too heavy to swallow. It guts me that my grandparents have died and such a short time ago. I so hoped I would be able to meet them; yet another stupid fantasy shot. I manage to force the cake down but can’t find the words to make her stop. She just goes on and on in a faraway detached tone.

  ‘I had to identify them. Not much of a mark on them, which was a blessing. They did have little cuts here and there on their faces from the windscreen, but nothing too gory. After six months I packed up and came here. They’d left a few savings and with their house up for sale I knew I’d have enough money to start again. I couldn’t face being there after what had happened. Too many happy memories. I wanted a fresh start and I found it here.’ She runs her hand through her hair and the bangles clank again. She continues to look trance-like through the window.

  ‘I got work in the jewellery shop in town that I now own forty per cent of. The majority owner has since moved up to Nottingham to look after her elderly parents. She didn’t want to leave here, but thought it was her duty. I wish I had that worry. My parents were only sixty-three, active, outgoing. I loved them so much and I miss them every day.’ Her voice catches, and she looks back at me, silent tears rolling down her face.

  Her expression unlocks something inside and the kitchen walls move back to their original position. My eyes fill, and I reach for her hand. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. That must have been such an awful shock … and it’s a shame that I’ll never meet them now.’ I stare at the crumbs on my plate, avoiding the pain in her blue eyes. Why had I added the last bit? It wasn’t all about me, was it?

  ‘They would have loved you, even though …’ Mellyn shakes her head, lets go of my hand to wipe her tears away and returns to her cake. ‘No use in getting hysterical, we’ve a long way to go.’ She finishes the cake, dabbing the napkin to her mouth, has a sip of tea and leans her elbows on the table. ‘Okay, so what else would you like to know?’

  If she thinks she’s being hysterical, she hasn’t seen me in full flow, but the way she just switched back to normal again feels a bit odd. I sit back in my chair. Where on earth should I take this next? ‘Mellyn—’

  ‘What do you think of my name – Mellyn?’

  I try to stop my mouth dropping open at the change of subject but fail. Closing it again I smile, even though I’m totally gobsmacked for a second or two. ‘I, err … Well, I think it’s a lovely name. It’s …’

  Obviously, a rhetorical question anyway because she hurries on. ‘When I came here I wanted a complete new start and that included my name. I adore the name Tamsyn and seriously considered changing it to that. Do you like Tamsyn?’

  ‘Yes, I …’

  ‘Thing is, I was bullied rotten at school because of the name Mellyn. Smelly Melly with the big fat belly they used to call me, even though I wasn’t fat, nor smelled.’ She gives a brittle laugh. ‘Well, I hope I didn’t. And then, later on, my husband called me Melon as a term of endearment. No matter how much I asked him not to, he wouldn’t stop. Still, what could I expect – he was such a bastard. Anyway, though I loved Tamsyn, in the end I decided that Mellyn I was born, and Mellyn I would stay. I came through the shit storm because of it and I’m much stronger the other end.’

  Shock at the revelation about her husband and also at the hatred in her voice as she speaks about him renders me dumb again. Her eyes have become the colour of waves on a stormy day. Eventually I hear myself say, ‘Oh, that must have been awful. I did wonder if you had been married, but then you still have your maiden name.’ I pause, expecting something back, but all I get are more waves. Then, because I can’t stand the awkward silence, I just say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘So, you never had more children?’

  ‘No. Thank God! I couldn’t have imagined loving any child of his. And let’s change the subject please – I don’t want to talk about him.’ Her mouth draws into a tight pout as though someone had pulled dra
wstrings at the corners of her lips.

  ‘Sorry. I seem to be always saying the wrong thing today.’

  Sunlight shines on the waves and she smiles. ‘No. Not at all, it’s just a very emotional meeting, that’s all. Please, go on.’

  I think quickly. Bullying is common ground between us, and hopefully not too contentious. ‘I can relate to being bullied at school.’ I stop when I realise she would obviously ask why, and then I’d have to tell her, and then she’d feel guilty, and then I’d have to say sorry – again. Not too contentious? What the hell is wrong with me today? It’s as if someone has taken out my brain and replaced it with a cupcake.

  ‘That’s a shame, why?’

  Yep. Just as I had predicted. Then I remember one incident and run with it. ‘Because of my name, just like you.’ I shoot her a broad smile as if it’s some huge achievement and then get a grip. ‘Yeah, they said Lucinda sounded posh and the surname Lacey meant that my full name was alliterative. Of course, they didn’t say alliterative, but that they both began with an L.’ I’m making it up as I go along now but I can’t stop. ‘“Lucinda Lacey,” they said, “who does she think she is – the bloody queen?”’ I say the last bit to the table in a very small voice.

  ‘Sounds more like a porn star to me,’ she says quietly. My head comes up and our eyes lock. I expect her to laugh but her expression is serious. Eventually she winks and laughs. ‘Got you there. But to be honest, having Lacey as a surname is a bit unfortunate. You like Lucinda though, yes?’

  It is more of a statement than a question. ‘Oh yes. As you know, I use Lu mostly, but—’

  ‘Because that was the only thing I gave you that I was told you would keep. Lucinda means light, and she was the Roman goddess of childbirth. I thought it was appropriate, because you certainly brought me light – and hope, at first, until …’ She pauses and drains her cup. ‘Anyway, you were Lucinda Rowe originally. Much better than Lacey, don’t you think?’