Whatever it takes, p.28
Whatever It Takes, page 28
Put so starkly Eloise was forced to face the bleak facts. ‘Well, she’s been going through a bad time,’ she muttered half-heartedly. Even she could see that things had become unbalanced, untenable.
‘So have we. I don’t want anything more to do with them.’
‘What should I tell Sara?’
‘Nothing.’ Mark looked worn out with the subject. ‘Let’s not talk about them any more.’
Eloise allowed the silence to wash over her. She decided Mark was right. She had to let the friendship go. They could do without the hassle. It would be very difficult to try to get past this incident with Charlie, why bother? Instead, what Eloise needed to do was to focus on her family.
‘How are you, Mark?’ she asked.
‘How am I?’ He seemed confused by the question.
‘Yes. How are you? Really? We’ve never talked about your mum or the adoption. You’ve pushed me away.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s not healthy.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. Just tell me what you are thinking. Let’s tackle it.’
‘You want to fix me now?’
‘Is that so bad?’ She put her hand on his chest. She could feel his heart beating. ‘Look, even if I can’t fix this one, I’d like at least to be part of the mess,’ she said with a smile.
Mark was silent for a few more minutes and then he said, ‘It feels like I’ve lost everything. I don’t know who I am any more. I don’t know where I came from. I don’t know where the girls came from.’
‘You’re overreacting. They came from me, from you. That hasn’t changed.’
Eloise’s hand was still resting on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat speeding up. His anguish hung around in the air they were breathing. She moved her hand to his face and started to stroke his cheekbone. It was damp. Eloise froze as she registered that her husband was sobbing silently. Then a strange sound escaped from him. Something between a howl and a groan. The sound of misery and loss. It cracked the air as he cried, ‘Everything has changed.’
FEBRUARY
37
Ray stood on a small wooden stool and reached up to the top of the wardrobe. He had made the stool in woodwork class when he was a lad of about eleven years old. It was well put together. Mark had taken proud ownership of the stool when he was a toddler, once he’d understood that his dad had crafted it. Now Mark was concerned whether the old stool could take Ray’s weight. Mark looked on anxiously but knew better than to offer help. Mark was more or less constantly anxious about his parents at the moment. His parents, Eloise and the girls. He found he was riddled with a vague feeling of fretfulness when he saw his mother and father walk through the cobbled streets, which were made treacherous with regular February frosts. He constantly warned the girls to take extra care when they were messing about on the boats or even crossing the road. He’d taken Eloise’s car in for a service even though it wasn’t due for months; he wanted the car to be in prime condition as she drove around the twisty, narrow roads. Mark was waiting for something bad to happen.
Something else bad to happen.
Eloise wanted him to see a counsellor. It was obvious to her that his anxiety was a result of receiving the unforeseen news that he was adopted and then fast on the heels of that, the confirmed diagnosis that Margaret had Alzheimer’s. He’d endured a seismic shift in his world and he was struggling to find a sure footing again. Mark refused point blank to see a counsellor on the grounds that he’d never liked Woody Allen’s films. However, he had at least talked to Ray and Margaret and he’d told them he’d like to try to trace his birth mother and even his birth father, if that was at all possible. Ray swallowed the news with a dignified and understanding nod of the head. If he felt rejected or in any way inadequate, he did not show it. Instead he offered to dig out the few bits that had come with Mark, in a hope that they might find a trail. Margaret said she’d put the kettle on and that she’d always liked playing ‘Hunt the Thimble’.
Eloise had wanted Mark to face his feelings but she hadn’t necessarily wanted him to trace his birth family, not that she had a problem with him doing so – she knew it had to be his decision and all she wanted was for him to be happy. She pledged her support either way, although she was desperately hoping that if they did track down his birth mother she would be at least one twentieth as wonderful as Margaret. The idea of inheriting a trickier mother-in-law, after all these years of marriage, wasn’t something Eloise relished.
Secretly, Eloise had started to torture herself with ‘what if’ moments; none of them were particularly positive. She didn’t find herself pondering What if his birth mum has won the lottery and wanted to give us a couple of million? Instead she found her mind rammed with thoughts such as what if this woman doesn’t want contact? Will Mark then be left feeling rejected again? What if she’s no longer alive or Mark can’t find her? Will the search go on and on and on like some bad art house movie? What if she’s in need of financial support and expects our help? Or worse, what if his other mother is ill too and needs running to the doctor’s or hospital every five minutes? What if she was an alcoholic? Eloise wondered whether she had the necessary resources for a stranger. Eloise could even see problems if the woman was overjoyed that Mark had tracked her down. What if she wanted to spend too much time with them? Eloise had only just begun to reap the benefits of spending time with her family and not using every weekend as a platform to showcase her hosting skills. The past weeks had been peaceful and she wasn’t sure whether she was ready to relinquish them. Eloise managed to keep her concerns in check. She tried to pour caution but not cold water.
‘Deciding to trace a relative has to be one of the most life-changing decisions anyone ever makes,’ she had said, as conversationally as possible, one night as they were watching Merlin on TV with the girls. The storyline had happily offered her a segue into the very difficult topic.
‘Yes, I realise that,’ Mark had commented. The girls were unaware of the conversation taking place above their heads and kept their eyes glued to the screen. Emily and Erin both had a crush on King Arthur although Poppy thought Merlin was the nicest. Their youthful, barely understood longings were enough to keep them occupied.
‘The outcome is unknown and the journey will be an emotional rollercoaster.’ Eloise had read that in a self-help book; she’d hoped it sounded like her own advice.
‘Are you saying you don’t want me to look for them?’
‘No. No, of course not. I just want you to be sure about your reasons for doing so. It might be exciting and fulfilling but it might also be frustrating and disappointing. I just want you to be prepared,’ Eloise had warned carefully.
But Mark was determined, which was why they were now in Ray and Margaret’s bedroom watching Ray precariously balance on the wooden stool.
Ray handed down the small box of keepsakes; Mark noticed that his father’s hand was shaking. He wondered whether he was dizzy because he’d been standing up on a stool or whether there was another reason.
The box didn’t reveal much. Eloise leaned over Mark’s shoulder but there wasn’t a letter written by his birth mother, a tearful confession explaining her particular circumstances, begging for his understanding and including a forwarding address in case of the eventuality that he ever wanted to meet up for a coffee. That would have been too much to ask. Of course, a letter like that would also have been too much for Ray and Margaret to hide.
‘There’s not much to go on. Sorry to disappoint,’ said Ray. ‘We don’t even have your original birth certificate.’
‘What was I called before?’
‘Mark. You came as Mark. Mark Antony, she called you. The social worker said she picked the name because of Antony and Cleopatra. She’d probably seen the Burton/Taylor film, I imagine. We kept her choice because it seemed the proper thing to do.’
Eloise glanced at Mark and wondered again whether this was the right move. He had parents who had lived their life doing the proper thing, wasn’t that enough? Mark’s face was impassive; only a twitch at the side of his mouth gave away the fact that he was working damned hard to stay impassive.
‘The first step is to make sure we have as much information about your origins as possible,’ said Ray. Eloise had heard him use this tone of voice in the past on many occasions, on the telephone when he’d been talking to clients. No doubt he found it reassuring to retreat into the rigidity of the law. ‘We need to get hold of a copy of your original birth certificate, which will contain identifying information about your birth mother and birth father, if it was ever recorded. As you were adopted before the twelfth of November 1975 and we don’t know your surname at birth, we’ll need to apply to the Registrar General for access to birth records.’ Eloise was sure that Mark must be comforted by the fact that his father constantly referred to what they had to do as a team. ‘I’ve already made some inquiries and I’m told that you’ll also need to meet with an adoption advisor. They become a sort of intermediary between us and the Registrar General. Meeting with an adoption advisor is required because, prior to the twelfth of November 1975, promises of lifelong confidentiality were given to birth parents. At that time it was understood the adoption order would mean that all legal ties to the birth family were severed and that there would be no further contact.’ Ray didn’t wait for Mark to respond to his words, he coughed and then returned to the box. ‘There’s no real information in this box at all. Just things with sentimental value.’ He pawed over the contents.
There was a thin, mass-produced cream blanket with a yellow ribbon trim, a dated but immaculate blue cotton Babygro and a photo. Ray picked out each item, one by one, and handed them to Mark. Mark couldn’t take his eyes off his father’s hands. Eloise wondered whether this was because he didn’t want to look into his father’s face or because when he’d clasped the cream blanket Mark’s hand had brushed up against Ray’s; a hand marked with age spots, that felt like the greaseproof paper Margaret used to line cake tins when she was baking. Hands that had lifted him into the air, tied his shoe laces and fastened his buttons, hands that had taught Mark to skim a stone, and make a catapult, hands that fastened his cufflinks on his wedding day when Mark had been too jittery to do so himself.
‘Your mother knitted all your blankets,’ said Ray. ‘But she couldn’t bring herself to throw this out because it came with you. We never wanted to wipe out your past.’ Ray paused, awkward. Aware that they had ignored Mark’s past whether that had been their intention or not. ‘We simply wanted to give you a future.’
‘Have you got the box out?’
Ray, Mark and Eloise all jumped at the sound of Margaret’s voice. They’d decided to tackle this operation while she’d been dozing on the chair in the sitting room. No one was sure how she’d take it, as no one was ever sure of anything about Margaret nowadays. She was now taking some medication that was supposed to help but didn’t always. Yesterday she threw a pineapple at the greengrocer’s head because she’d thought he’d cheated her when weighing out mushrooms. Eloise had tried to defuse the situation by making jokes about the fact that Margaret had missed her vocation and should have trained for the 1968 Olympics, she’d have had a chance in the shot put. The greengrocer, who was new to Dartmouth (he had moved here just four years ago), didn’t see the funny side and said the ‘crazy old bat’ was banned from his shop.
Ray, Mark and Eloise stared at Margaret warily, trying to judge her state of mind. She moved towards the bed where the box lay open. She took the blanket off Mark and buried her face in it. ‘I think this came from the hospital,’ she said thoughtfully. Margaret addressed her comment to Mark. ‘It has that air about it, doesn’t it? An institutional air. But I’m not sure. They didn’t tell us much.’ She sighed. ‘We didn’t ask much. I do know that she was eighteen. She was supposed to be going to university. So must have been a bright girl. Cambridge, wasn’t it, Ray?’
Ray nodded. ‘It was never confirmed. They didn’t want to give out that sort of detail but the social worker was so impressed that she let it slip. It wasn’t the norm, you see.’
‘Cambridge?’ Eloise couldn’t help but be impressed too. ‘Maybe she’d read the play, then, rather than seen the film. Shakespeare rather than Hollywood.’
Ray looked surprised at Eloise’s suggestion. He’d clearly never thought of that.
‘Maybe,’ he admitted now.
‘I used to like imagining her at Cambridge,’ added Margaret. ‘I imagined her as having long, dark, flowing hair, dashing through the arches, rushing to her lectures.’ Margaret paused and looked at Mark. ‘Dark hair, like yours, I thought. I always imagined her very happy in amongst those gowns and books because I wanted her to be happy, Mark. You understand, don’t you? You see, she’d made us so happy. That girl made me the happiest woman in the world.’
‘We don’t know for definite, of course. She may never have gone to university,’ said Ray, refusing to get caught up in the potential romanticism.
‘I like to think she did,’ said Margaret firmly. The family fell silent. They were all looking at the flimsy baby blanket. Margaret stroked the tiny Babygro, it wasn’t much bigger than an adult’s hand. She turned to Mark and almost giggled. Eloise knew she must be marvelling at the fact that a tiny baby could grow into such a big guy; it was a fact that surprised every mother. Eloise suddenly thought of Margaret’s cook books, she imagined the endless meals her mother-in-law had cooked to grow this man.
‘I do know something, though, son,’ said Margaret, breaking the contemplative silence.
‘What’s that?’
‘She loved you very much. I’ve always been so certain of that because look, she took this photo the day you were first born. Look, it’s dated.’ Margaret handed the photo to Mark, and Eloise peeked at it from over his shoulder. Baby Mark was lying in just a towelling nappy on a mattress. His eyes were wide open and he was staring at whoever had taken the shot. He looked like most small babies in photographs, wrinkly and startled. He looked healthy, bigger than average. His hair was the only truly notable feature; black and thick even then and perhaps there was something about the shape of his lips that was familiar too. Her girls had inherited his lips but, oddly, not his hair colour. Eloise had thought that gene would dominate her blondness but in fact the three girls were all fair. ‘I knew from this photo how much she loved you. You see, she’s taken a photo of you as near naked as she dared. I think she was trying to drink you up. Absorb every last bit of you while she could. And look here –’ Margaret pointed to the edge of the snap – ‘this photo has been part of a set. In those days we used to get photos printed in shops and they often did the same image in pairs or even fours. So you could give one to relatives and such. Can you see, this has been cut with a pair of scissors? Along this edge. I think that she kept the same image. I’ve always imagined she kept it in her purse.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Ray grumpily.
‘No, but I do know that she gave us a copy of this photo, no matter what she did with the other one. She loved you so much, Mark, that she gave us this photo of you before we knew you, so even those few weeks could be ours too. Do you understand what I’m saying? She was generous enough to gift us everything. I always thought that showed her to be something special.’
Mark didn’t comment. It was a lot to take in. He was dealing with an overwhelming rush of gratitude, whereas for months he’d been swamped by feelings of frustration and anger. Suddenly, he was grateful to the woman who gave birth to him, whoever she was, wherever she might be. And he was grateful to his mum and dad, who clearly loved him, had always loved him, and always would. The resentment, that they had kept his adoption a secret, receded fractionally. He understood that they had done what they thought was best at the time. The terror that his mum was disappearing still tore at his gut but he was grateful that she was lucid right now. He was so, so appreciative that, on top of everything she’d already given him, she’d given him this story too.
38
Eloise found that severing her intimate friendship with Sara was considerably easier than she’d feared. Eloise had no idea how she should tell Sara that it would no longer be possible to have daily telephone calls that might last over an hour, that she would not be available to scoot down the motorway whenever she was needed to comfort or console and that Sara and Charlie would no longer be welcome to join the Hamiltons for festivities and holidays. She wondered whether she ought to slowly retract, simply send texts and emails for a while, rather than making any direct contact. This would allow the friendship to cool to tepid and ultimately freeze over altogether. Or should she call and say she was going to be out of action for a while as she concentrated on Margaret’s health care? It wouldn’t be an absolute lie but then it probably wouldn’t be a powerful enough excuse to put off Sara; she was very determined about commanding attention if she needed it. It didn’t cross Eloise’s mind that she should tell Sara about Charlie’s hideously inappropriate behaviour. Eloise was not the sort of woman who’d get any pleasure from breaking another woman’s heart. As it happened, Eloise didn’t have to do any severing. Three days after Charlie left the Hamiltons with a bloody nose, Sara called Eloise.
Eloise was sitting in the Dart Café with Arabella and Jackie enjoying the long overdue but oft-talked-about cup of coffee and sticky bun. Eloise liked the Dart Café very much. She and the girls were in the habit of going there on Friday evenings, after school, to sit on the mismatched chairs and eat fish-finger sandwiches accompanied by a bowl of fries. Arabella and Jackie had witnessed Eloise’s patience and dedication with Margaret and they’d seen that the Woddells had visited the Hamiltons over Christmas, so they’d concluded that Eloise couldn’t possibly be a total bitch, despite the impression she’d given at the disastrous dinner party. They were experienced enough to understand that even the most decent people lost patience and perspective occasionally. Although Eloise had never considered it, Arabella and Jackie were also very keen to extend their friendship circle and so were delighted when the buoyant Hamiltons moved into the town. They’d opted not to race to a hasty judgement after the dinner party but instead decided to spend a bit more time with Eloise and try to get to know her, if she’d let them. They’d been pleased when, after the Christmas holidays, she’d called Arabella and suggested a lift share to school and then called Jackie and suggested a date for coffee.
