I wish I could drink wine. Wine would numb the pain, the confusion. What is going on? What happened all those years ago? And the even bigger question . . . who the hell am I?
I hunger and thirst for wifi. It’s a craving. Like apples. Like Granny Smiths. I want wifi! There’s no internet in the house and it’s too late now to go knocking anywhere other than Cliona’s and she’s out for the night.
I’ve tried a fruitless search on my phone as there isn’t any signal here. I toy with borrowing Margaret’s car but she came here by cab and that means I’d have to get a cab with her, then borrow her car, then drive about three miles to somewhere that DOES have 3G or 4G and sit by a pond with my tiny phone trying to learn about my life.
Was it my life? It must be. I must be baby Diana. The dates tally with my date of birth. But then . . . was that my date of birth? How many secrets has my mother kept from me? Am I older than I think I am? Younger than I think I am? None of it makes sense.
‘Tell me all you remember about the case,’ I say to Margaret, once we’re back in Mum’s kitchen, and I sound for all the world to hear as if I’m in an American cop show and I’m opening an old investigation.
Margaret looks stupefied.
‘I just have to think. It wasn’t that important to me.’
Which is clearly, obviously the case. Why would it be important to her? Though it takes all my strength not to bellow at her . . . WELL, IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME!!
I feel the baby kick. I instinctively touch my tummy. Maybe she is sensing my stress. I don’t want her to be stressed. I take a deep breath. I have to remember her in all of this. I have to make sure she is safe.
Did Mum not make sure I was safe? Did she leave me in a pram outside the house? They used to do that in the olden days. Is that what she did? Did she leave me outside and some lunatic passed by and stole me?
It all sounds so implausible. I don’t know why.
I take another deep breath.
‘Of course it’s not important to you. Wasn’t . . . important to you. Why would it be? And it was a long time ago. But please. Just try and think.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I remember.’
I’m literally hanging on her every word. Like every word is another rung on a stepladder and by clinging on and hauling myself up onto the next one I am getting myself nearer and nearer to the truth.
‘It was on the news. Every single night. She seemed to be missing for ages.’
‘The baby?’
‘Yes.’
‘Baby Diana?’
‘That rings a bell. I can’t remember. But seeing that picture . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, I remember the mother’s face. I don’t remember names of . . . or when it was or . . .’
‘Do you remember how the baby was taken?’
‘Well. It says in the paper. Back garden. Was it really back garden?’
‘I don’t know, Margaret. You know more than me.’
‘I’ve no memory of any of it being linked to the New Forest. I’d have remembered much more if it was.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know. Maybe it was in Southampton?’
‘I don’t think so. I could be wrong but . . . it had nothing to do with this area. You remember things better when it happens in the area you live in or . . . if the area you live in had a big story going on in it once upon a time. I just remember it being on the news a lot. Never thought it would end really.’
‘So I was . . . perhaps . . . taken from a hospital. And then . . .’
‘Yes, I just remember it being on the news a lot. Never thought it would end really.’
‘How long? How long was it on the news?’
‘Well, I’ve absolutely no idea but it felt like months. But you know how time stretches. Maybe it was weeks. You think this baby was you?’
‘I don’t know for sure but . . . I think so.’
‘I don’t know how they found the baby, but I know they did because I remember everyone thinking, “Well there’s a surprise; I thought they’d never find her”.’
‘Right.’
‘And then of course that photograph. That’s so familiar.’ And she looks at the picture of Linda Wilson holding baby Diana. Overjoyed. ‘It must have been on all the front pages.’
‘Well, I’ve . . . always said I was . . . kind of a . . . front-cover gal,’ I joke.
‘That’s honestly all I remember, darling. I’m so sorry. I don’t remember where it was or when it was or how it happened. I’m useless.’
It would be unfair to agree. No matter how much I want to.
‘Everyone used to leave their babies outside in prams in those days. This was such a wake-up call.’
And I then see she has a new thought.
‘Didn’t you say your neighbour here knew about the dead baby?’
‘Pam?!’
‘When you thought Diana was your dead sister.’
‘Oh my God, Margaret! You genius!’
I hug her. And she has absolutely no idea why.
She probably also has no idea why I suddenly run to the front door and flee the house.
I stop as I do. My baby has hiccupped. It’s the most bizarre feeling. Most of the time I feel like she’s my constant companion. She is my constant companion. She stops me feeling lonely. But at times like this it’s such an alien feeling that another human is definitely inside me. And the hiccup makes me think she is an alien. But I can’t think like that for too long. She is my friend. I try to hurry on.
I stand in the lane and look up at Pam’s house. The light’s off in her bedroom but I see an encouraging flicker through her thin living room curtains. Ah. She is watching television. Or snoozing in front of the television. Either way, a flicker was never more inviting.
Fast forward two minutes and I’m sitting in Pam’s kitchen and she’s making me something milky on the stove.
‘She didn’t die, did she?’ I say. ‘Baby Diana.’
I sense the milky drink-making is a displacement activity. God forbid she’d usually want to do anything for me.
‘Pam? I’m baby Diana, aren’t I?’
The pan in her hand rattles on the stove and I realize she is shaking. She replaces the pan on the hob, switches off the gas, then comes and sits at the table, whereupon she does something I’ve never seen her do in my life before. EVER. She huddles over the table, her head in her hands, and starts sobbing her heart out. It’s a completely OTT display. The sort of thing that if you saw on the telly or in a film you wouldn’t believe. You’d say to the director, ‘Have a word, love.’ But this is real, and for once I really don’t know what to do.
‘What’s the matter, Pam?’
She doesn’t answer. Just continues to convulse and sob.
‘Pam?’
I reach across the table and touch her hand and she grabs it desperately, but still doesn’t look up.
I feel like I’m in some surreal comedy. A pregnant Amy Schumer pulling a succession of hilarious faces as her nonspeaking neighbour continues to have a breakdown and she feels increasingly out of her depth.
‘Come on, Pam,’ I say in an odd, high-pitched, overtly kindly voice. I sound like Minnie Mouse taking holy orders. ‘You can tell me.’
She looks up. She takes a death rattly breath in, and pulls her hand away from me, still gasping for air.
‘Pam?’
‘What do you know? Tell me everything you know. And I’ll tell you what I know.’
And so I tell her. I tell her about the newspaper clipping. And the two names. Linda Wilson. And baby Diana. And how I thought baby Diana had died and how she’d corroborated it, but I now think baby Diana was me. But I don’t know. And I won’t be able to look anything up on a decent computer for a wee while. As I speak she gathers herself in and becomes more like her normal self.
‘Let me make you some nice hot chocolate and I’ll tell you everything I know.’
She gets up and busies herself at the hob again. This is more like the Pam I know. Practical. Stoical. Bit rude.
As she talks I notice her dressing gown is stained, despite having the motif ‘PRACTICALLY PERFECT IN EVERY WAY’ embossed on the back in studs. I remember my mother telling me about her buying it on the market and not realizing it had lettering on the back and how they’d laughed.
‘The thing you need to remember is. Your mum’s and my generation. We weren’t all chitty chatty cosy tell-all-over-a-bottle-of-wine sort of women. Some of us burnt our bras and discovered the orgasm. But some of us just shut up and got on with it.’
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘And so therefore you have to remember that your mother and I never really spoke about what happened in any detailed way. Even if I was her best friend.’
I nod, wishing she’d get on with it.
‘I wasn’t exactly the Sex and the City generation.’
‘Actually, Kim Cattrall’s sixty now, so she’s only a few years younger than you.’
She bristles. I’ve mentioned her age. She hates me mentioning her age.
‘But she’s American,’ she points out, albeit incorrectly.
‘From Liverpool.’
‘Britain always takes a while to catch on.’
LOOK, JUST GET ON WITH IT, WOMAN!
She’s actually made the hot chocolate and still hasn’t told me a single thing. I decide a few prompt-style questions might get her talking.
‘So. Am I Diana?’
She turns and looks at me. Almost reluctantly, it seems, she nods her head. ‘Yes, yes you are.’
‘But why wouldn’t my mum tell me that?’
‘She was trying to protect you.’
‘From what?’
‘I don’t really know. But I suppose if you’ve had your baby stolen from you, you just want to hide away and not let anyone near you. I don’t know.’
‘Was she living here when I was taken?’
‘No. God, no. This is where she ran away to after it all happened.’
She hands me a mug of cocoa.
‘I recognized her immediately. Well, she’d been headline news for a fortnight. But she said her name was Jane. And you were baby Rachel. And I guess I just thought . . . fair enough. She seemed so shell-shocked. And . . . well, that’s about it really.’
‘So you never said, “Aren’t you Linda Wilson?”’
‘No. Never. I think because I just sort of got why she was here. Why she’d want to hide away. It wasn’t nice what she went through.’
‘And what had actually happened to me?’
‘She’d just given birth to you. And this . . . mad woman came along and took you. Right from under her nose. And then . . . the rest is history.’
‘Yes. My history, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard it. Where was this?’
‘I forget now, it was so long ago. The Midlands somewhere?’
‘The Midlands? Mum was from . . . the Midlands? I thought she was New Forest born and bred?’
‘I’m sorry, Rachel. I tried to get her to talk to you about it before she . . . before she went.’
I remember the conversation I overheard.
‘But you know how stubborn she was.’
I do indeed.
‘Where did they find me? What did the mad woman do?’
I suddenly feel sick. What did that mad woman do to me? Did she hurt me? Did she interfere with me?
‘You were found perfectly safe. She’d cared for you like you were her own.’
‘Who was she? Where was she?’
‘I can’t remember. I’m sure if you . . . get hold of some old newspapers you can find out.’
‘And what happened to her?’
‘She was sent to the loony bin. That much I do remember. She was only a young thing, I think.’
‘My God, this is incredible. And you never even discussed it with Mum?’
‘As I said, Rachel. You and I both know how stubborn she was. Drink your cocoa.’
I take a sip and it burns my mouth.
‘You know when you said I was found perfectly safe?’
‘Aha?’
‘Are you just saying that? Like . . . to make me feel better?’
‘No!’
‘Coz I can take it, you know. I’d rather know all the bad things from someone like you than . . . learn the truth, further down the line from . . . I don’t know. Google.’
‘You were safe,’ she says. And I believe her. After all, when did Pam ever feel the need to sugar-coat things?
‘Thanks, Pam.’
She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head like it’s nothing.
‘So I am baby Diana.’
‘I can only think you are.’
‘And Mum’s real name was Linda Wilson?’
‘I can only think it was.’
‘I wonder who she was hiding from. Coming here.’
‘Who do you bloody think?! Bonkers Beryl who took you in the first place!’
‘But . . . she was locked away.’
‘I know but . . . oh, I dunno, I’ve never had kids, but when you were little if anything had happened to you I’d have strung the buggers up.’
‘Something did happen to me.’
‘I mean after you moved here. She was safe here. You were. You both were. Away from prying eyes. She was well known. Oh, everyone had an opinion on her. The woman who left her baby unattended for five minutes. Half the country felt sorry for her, half saw her as a bona fide pariah. But here . . . everyone left her alone. She could go days without seeing anyone. And then by the time she was ready to go back to work, she’d changed her hair, changed that bloody name. No-one was any the wiser. Clever girl, really.’
‘She lied to everyone.’
She lied to me, is what I really mean.
‘Survival mechanism,’ Pam says.
So I say it. ‘She lied to me, Pam.’
And she says it again. ‘Survival mechanism.’
I go home to bed with too many questions in my head.
Christ, I sound like Morrissey.
I lie in the dark. And hark . . .
Oh God, I’ve got to stop trying to make everything rhyme.
I’m clearly going mad.
They say grief sends you mad.
That’s it. That’s what’s happened. The grief of losing my mum has kicked in and I have hallucinated ALL of this. This hasn’t happened. Margaret didn’t come to the river with a piece of paper. I didn’t go to Pam next door and demand answers and – sort of – get them. In a moment I will wake up from my reverie to someone slapping me round the face and saying, ‘Rachel? Are you all right? It seems like you were having a bad dream? You kept shouting, “Diana!”’
If I can just go to sleep. If I can just nod off it will all be all right. I will wake afresh and be back to my normal self.
My name is Rachel Taylor.
My name is not Diana Wilson.
Rachel.
Rachel.
When I wake up, of course, nothing has changed. It’s not the grief that made it happen. It did actually happen. This is actually happening. It is the oddest of feelings. To find out you’re not who you thought you were. To find out your mother wasn’t who she said she was and lied repeatedly throughout your childhood. To you and to everybody else. And the effort that must have involved. The worry that someone might tell me, or realize; that I might realize.
I know one thing. I need to know more. I need to know the full story. I need to know who the hell I am. Was there a dad? Was she a single mum when I was taken? Why was I taken? Who was this fruitloop? Whatever happened to her? Where did she take me? Why did she take me? How long was I with her for?
The newspaper article said about a month. If I had a month alone with someone, that’s a significant amount of time. Is she still incarcerated? Has she been released? Is she still alive?
So many questions. So many bloody questions.
I haul my body out of bed and try to reason with myself as I walk around the piles of clutter that now make up Mum’s house.
Look. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. It was thirty-six years ago.
She was still your mum.
You’ve only known yourself as Rachel, so sod it. It’s not like you’ve found out you were adopted. Your mum still brought you up. All that you have really found out is that you had a different name when you were born and that . . . well, I try to look on it as if I had a short break with someone else for a while when I was tiny.
But I still want to know more.
And I know where I want to be when I find this information out.
I don’t want to be here. Well, I can’t be here; there’s no signal. But I don’t want to be in the flat above Cliona’s cafe either. I want to be comfortable and in my own surroundings, surrounded by my things. My proper things. My nice things.
I want to be home in London.
The landline rings. I answer it.
‘Hello? Fiddler’s Cottage?’
‘Darling, it’s Margaret. How are you?’
‘In shock, I think. I just want to go to London.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Well . . . not really.’
‘Go on. There must be something.’
‘I suppose you could come and stay here for a few days and stick everything in the skip and meet the people who want to buy stuff.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘You are joking? Coz I was. Sort of.’
‘I’m a nosy old crow. I love looking through your mum’s stuff. And who knows what I’ll find next. Maybe she was an alien.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’
By mid-afternoon I’m walking into my flat in Bloomsbury and my fingers are itching to get onto my computer.
I’ve been so good. All the way home on the train I resisted the urge to tap the name Diana Wilson into the search engine on my phone. I wanted to do this properly.
I switch the computer on at the wall. Press the button at the back. I hear it spring into action.
Finally.
Here goes.
I type four words into the search engine: Diana Wilson Baby Snatch.