Forever yours, p.27
Forever Yours, page 27
Erin smiles gently, and I know that this might be a scenario she has imagined being on the other side of many times. That the whole issue of children, biological or not, might be a bittersweet one for her. Katie is not searching for her parents right now, is not looking to be reunited with them, but that might change. Erin, like Beth’s family, will be supportive – but she will also be nervous.
‘I think she sounds amazing, Gemma. I think her parents sound amazing too, and I know how hard it must have been for her mum to help her write that letter. That took real courage, and shows how much they love her. I think they got it just right, don’t you? It’s early days yet, but the door is open now – it’s a beginning. If I was her mum, I’d be proud of her too, and also a bit scared about what all of this means – not just for me, but for her. I’d be concerned, and have some reservations.’
‘Like what?’ I ask, leaning forward, elbows perched on the table, genuinely keen to know. If there are reservations, I want to address them.
‘Well, we know you, Gemma. We know you’ve gone on to make something of your life. We know you are clever and kind and in your own weird way extremely sorted. But they don’t know that yet, do they? For all her mum and dad know, you could be a complete mess. Your life could be a disaster zone, and you could be a bad influence. At worst, you could be someone who might exploit their daughter in some way. Drag her down, emotionally or even financially.’
I sit back, horrified at the words, feeling their sting. I have never considered this, but of course she is right. They know nothing about me, and must be anxious, waiting to see if I will be an asset to Beth’s life or a drain on her emotions.
Their first impressions of me, all that they actually know about me, stem from the fact that I was a sixteen-year-old in care who got pregnant. Not exactly the most inspiring beginning.
Erin looks upset when she sees my reaction, and quickly adds: ‘I know you’re not any of those things – I’m not suggesting you are. I’m just telling you how they might feel. How I might feel. Their number one priority will be to protect her, and they don’t know yet whether you are someone she will need protecting from. Does that make sense? Please don’t hate me, I didn’t mean to burst your bubble!’
‘No, it’s all right,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘It’s OK. I asked what you thought, and this is what I needed to hear. I’m sitting here popping champagne corks and they might be sitting at home wondering what kind of threat they might have invited into their daughter’s life. It’s useful to know, and it will help me write that letter – because I know she will show it to her parents. I’ll be writing it as much to her mum as to her. What do you think I should say? What will reassure them?’
Erin looks relieved, and gulps down a few mouthfuls from her glass.
‘Well, I think you need to write from the heart, and not go overboard on the reassurance – it’s not like you need to send them a copy of your CV! Just tell them about yourself. Tell them that you’re a teacher. Tell them that you have friends. Tell them that you have a partner, and almost a dog – that seems to be a big winner with them. Just make sure they know that this is a good thing, not a scary one.’
Katie has been quiet throughout this exchange, and I know she must be soaking it up. It must be odd for her, hearing her mum’s views on the issue, and I know she will be storing some of this away in her giant brain.
I glance at her, and raise my eyebrows.
‘I think,’ she announces, ‘that you just need to tell her you’ve always loved her. That you’ve never forgotten her or stopped thinking about her. That you know her real mum and dad will always be exactly that – her real mum and dad. That you’re not looking to replace them, because you couldn’t ever. But that if she wants to, you’d like to stay in touch, take it slowly, and get to know her better. That’s what I’d want to hear. You’re not that bad, you know, for a grown-up – hey, if you like, I’ll write you a reference!’
We all laugh, and the thought of it takes some of the tension away. I dread to think what would constitute a reference from an eighteen-year-old: gives me booze and does dance-offs?
I look around the table at the three of them. One who is old enough to be my mother. One who is young enough to be my daughter. One in the middle, who is my friend. Different ages, different backgrounds, different people – but every single one of them completely perfect in their own way. I feel suddenly weepy, overcome with the realisation that for the first time in my life, I have this – I have my own tribe.
I have Karim. I have the Three Witches. I am in touch with my own mother, and with my child. I can feel Bill licking my ankles beneath the table. All is well in the world, and I offer up a silent prayer of gratitude to whoever might be listening.
‘Thank you,’ I say, eventually. ‘All of you. You three, and that PE teacher guy, have changed my life. I couldn’t have done any of this without you, without your encouragement and support and without the dancing and the drinking and the laughing. I’ve gone from being scared of everything to feeling excited about the future. I don’t even count as much anymore! Everything has changed, everything – and you are all part of it.’
‘Are you crying, Miss?’ asks Katie, calling me ‘Miss’ out of school because she knows it will amuse me. Possibly stop me from descending into full-on sobbing.
‘I just might be,’ I say, swiping at my face. ‘That or I’ve got something in my eye. Anyway, thank you – I mean it, I really do. And if Beth ever reaches the stage where she wants to meet me, I’ll be taking all of you with me. Me, you three, Karim, Bill. Road trip. It’s all or nothing.’
Margie cackles, and replies: ‘What on earth would she think if she saw all of us trooping around with you like bodyguards? How would you explain that one?’
‘It’s pretty simple,’ I answer. ‘I’d tell her the truth. I’d tell her that you’re my family. The one I made for myself.’
Chapter 33
Five months later
We have been in this pretty town for hours already, because someone – that would be me – insisted on heading out at five in the morning, ‘just to be sure’.
We made the drive down in torrential rain, the same rain that has been battering the land for weeks now, flooding fields and bursting riverbanks and flattening gardens.
As soon as we arrived, it changed – one of those strange moments where the downpour just stopped, sudden and unexpected, as though a giant overhead tap had been switched off. The sun emerged, rainbows appeared, and we all stood in the hotel car park staring up at the dry blue sky as though we’d never seen such a thing before.
It is spring, and we have learned to expect the unexpected. Now, we are grateful for the respite, the gentle heat on our skin like a reassuring touch, walking around gloriously unencumbered by raincoats and umbrellas.
The streets of Stratford-upon-Avon have emerged clean and fresh, bright green leaves dripping with liquid, tables and chairs hastily set up outside street cafés. People are laughing and talking to each other, the welcome change in season making friends of strangers.
I am here with Karim, and Katie and Erin. Only one of us is missing – two, if you count Bill.
The hospital letter that arrived for Margie on the same day as Beth’s landed for me was inviting her for a routine mammogram.
She didn’t think much of it, and neither did I – it’s called ‘routine’ for a reason. The difference this time, though, is that they found a problem. They found breast cancer.
Margie had become such a big part of my life that I think I was more shocked than she was. I simply couldn’t imagine my world without her in it, and was devastated at the diagnosis. I tried to hide it as well as I could, because I didn’t want to end up in the ridiculous situation where she was comforting me instead of the other way around.
It was caught early, before it had a chance to spread, and all the signs are good that the lumpectomy and radiotherapy she had have worked.
We have all rallied around her, Bill moved in with me while she was in hospital, and Margie has dealt with it all in her typical stoical way. She has cried and joked in equal measure, and I am in awe of her resilience, her ability to remain optimistic, no matter what is thrown at her.
It was – still is – a huge worry. Even being away from her for one night feels reckless, as though it is inviting disaster. As though the cancer will sneak back if I’m not there to stare it down. Also, I just miss her – we all do.
Technically, she is well enough to have come, and we all tried to convince her to. Karim even offered to hire a posh jeep so we could travel in style. She remained firm, insisting she wanted to stay at home to look after Bill – of course, it was nothing to do with Bill, who would gladly have gone to stay overnight with a sitter. It was because she didn’t want to slow us down, to hold us back in any way.
She is a silly moo, and we all wish she was here, no matter how slowly we’d have needed to take things. We wish she was here, cracking rude jokes and cackling and making us all laugh.
We have compensated for her absence by making constant video calls, giving her a second-hand guided tour of Stratford.
We have taken her on walks around the historic streets, taken her inside the quaint tea rooms, held up the screen to show her the Royal Shakespeare Company at the waterside. We have hired a boat, and Karim has rowed us up and down the river, giving Margie a running fake-sports commentary on the way.
We have been on a tour of Shakespeare’s Birthplace, which sent me and Katie into some kind of history-induced trance. Seeing those higgledy-piggledy rooms, looking through the windows he’d have looked out from as a child, seeing the fireplaces and furniture and beamed ceilings of his home – it was really wonderful.
We have done all of these things, crammed into a blessedly busy day, and now I am here, standing alone outside an art gallery on the amusingly named Sheep Street.
Karim, Katie and Erin have gone to the nearest pub, after multiple assurances from me that I am going to be fine. I think Karim wanted to hover nearby, waiting to catch me in case of unexpected swooning. It is sweet that he feels like that, but it would be too much for all of us to turn up at once. If this goes well, there will be time for introductions later. For now, I take heart from the fact that I know he is probably watching me from the window. That he cares. That they all do.
I am early, and I decide to give Margie yet another call.
‘Hiya, love,’ she says, her voice amused. ‘Are you going for the world record on how many phone calls I’ve had in one day?’
‘Sorry, am I interrupting something important?’
‘Well, I’m watching Poldark, if you must know …’
‘Ah. Fair enough. Just wanted to check on you.’
That, of course, is a lie. I just wanted to hear her voice. I just wanted to hold on to normal for a few more moments.
‘So,’ she says, ‘are you standing outside the place you’re supposed to be meeting her?’
I laugh, and reply: ‘Almost. How did you know?’
‘I knew because I know you. So, tell me about it – the place where you are, right now.’
‘Well,’ I say, glancing around. ‘It’s called Sheep Street. There’s a really nice Town Hall, opened by the actor David Garrick in 1769. There are lots of listed buildings – houses, restaurants, a pub. From what I read before we came, there’s been property of some kind here since the twelfth century. It apparently has the oldest-surviving cobblestones in Stratford … and … OK. I feel better now. You really do know me, don’t you?’
‘That I do. So, remind me, then – what is happening on this day in history?’
‘I am meeting Beth,’ I reply, smiling. Even the feel of her name on my lips makes me happy. ‘I am meeting my daughter.’
‘You are. So stop blathering, and get on with it.’
She hangs up, and I smile as I put my phone back into my bag. Margie might not be here in person, but she is making her presence felt. I glance around at the pub across the way, and, sure enough, I spot them all in a window seat, Katie waving at me through the glass.
The café is just around the corner, on a cobbled alleyway. I scoped it out earlier, got a quick coffee, counted the tables, the usual me stuff.
Now I have to walk towards it, and towards her. We have written letters, exchanged photos, swapped phone numbers. We have edged into each other’s lives carefully and cautiously and, in my case, joyously – but we have never met. Not until today, at this kind-of midway point between her home and mine. Between her people and my people.
I wonder idly if her mum and dad and siblings are lurking somewhere nearby as well – maybe our families are all in the same pub, trying to look out of the same window, all feeling nervous on our behalf.
I take the steps I need to take. I cross the cobbles and close the distance. I stand by the café door.
I look inside, and I see her. I see my daughter, waving at me through the window. I see her smile, her deep-red hair, her big brown eyes.
I see my baby girl, all grown up. I see her in all her perfect glory – ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes.
I open the door. I walk towards her. And I make history.
Acknowledgements
Getting to the end of a book is always an achievement, and I would never make it without the help and support of my friends and family.
Thank you to Dom, Keir, Dan, Louisa, Norm, Tara and Dave, and the extended clan for endless chaos, distractions and inspiration. I love you all billions. Plus, I know they’re not reading this, but a big woof to my dogs, who listen to me talk about plots all day long without ever once complaining.
Thank you to my pals – you really are the best. Pamela Hoey, Sandra Shennan, Paula Woosey, Helen Shaw, Ade Blackburn and everyone from my regular quiz nights – sanity savers every one of you.
My author pals are also fantastic. This can be a strange job, and you do most of it without colleagues by your side. Huge love then to the people who make it feel like I’m not alone – Milly Johnson, Catherine Isaac, Jane Linfoot, Miranda Dickinson and Carmel Harrington among them. Here’s to a year where we might get to meet up in person again!
On the professional front, I’d like to thank my agent Hayley Steed and the team at the Madeleine Milburn Agency for championing my work so well. Also, the wonderful people at Orion books – my editor Charlotte Mursell, as well as Alainna Hadjigeorgiou, Folayemi Adebayo and Sanah Ahmed. Thanks for the support, afternoon teas, scurrilous gossip and general loveliness.
This is, of course, a work of fiction – but I have tried to root it as much in reality as I could. Thanks to the people who spoke to me about both their personal and professional experiences with care and adoption, including Graeme Harper, who I have been asked to acknowledge as ‘the Greatest Man in the World’. I have tweaked reality in places where I needed to, because, like I said, fiction.
This book is set in Liverpool, where I live. I loved doing that, and recreating Gemma’s little seaside home. I’ve played slightly fast and loose with some geography, so to my fellow dog walkers – many of whom have their pooches named in this! – forgive me if you find yourself thinking ‘hang on, there are no houses by that second sand dune on the right …’
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about Gemma and her family – and that you’ll join me for the next adventure! Thanks to everyone who has read or written about my books – you really are the vital ingredient.
Credits
Debbie Johnson and Orion Fiction would like to thank everyone at Orion who worked on the publication of Forever Yours in the UK.
Editorial
Charlotte Mursell
Sanah Ahmed
Copyeditor
Marian Reid
Proofreader
Francine Brody
Audio
Paul Stark
Jake Alderson
Contracts
Anne Goddard
Humayra Ahmed
Ellie Bowker
Design
Charlotte Abrams-Simpson
Joanna Ridley
Nick May
Editorial Management
Charlie Panayiotou
Jane Hughes
Bartley Shaw
Tamara Morriss
Finance
Jasdip Nandra
Afeera Ahmed
Elizabeth Beaumont
Sue Baker
Marketing
Folayemi Adebayo
Production
Ruth Sharvell
Publicity
Alainna Hadjigeorgiou
Sales
Jen Wilson
Esther Waters
Victoria Laws
Rachael Hum
Anna Egelstaff
Frances Doyle
Georgina Cutler
Operations
Jo Jacobs
Sharon Willis
About the Author
Debbie Johnson is an award-winning author who lives and works in Liverpool, where she divides her time between writing, caring for a small tribe of children and animals, and not doing the housework. She writes feel-good emotional women’s fiction, and has sold more than 1 million books worldwide. She is published in the USA, Canada, Australia, India, Germany, France, Italy, Turkey and the Ukraine. Her best-sellers include the Comfort Food Cafe series, Cold Feet at Christmas, The A-Z of Everything, Maybe One Day and The Moment I Met You.
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Orion Fiction
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd,
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Debbie Johnson 2022
The moral right of Debbie Johnson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
